


Truth of his Dreams

by WonderstruckSwan



Category: Class (TV 2016)
Genre: Anastasia AU, M/M, macsingh is in here btu not a macsingh fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 01:49:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15086408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderstruckSwan/pseuds/WonderstruckSwan
Summary: A group of conmen (and con women) living in the newly formed Republic of Rhodia cannot believe their luck when an amnesiac street orphan named Charlie falls into their laps, who just so happens to have a striking resemblance to the long lost Prince Charles, who was apparently killed along with his parents in the revolution eight years prior, although no body was ever found.Now, all there is to do is take Charlie to London, convince his grandmother he is the Prince, and collect the reward money.Oh, and Matteusz should avoid falling in love with him. Even though there is no way he could really be Prince Charles.Could he?Or, the Marlie Anastasia AU my brain kept bugging me about.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> We're taking a bit of creative licensing with this fic; let's pretend Rhodia is a small Western European kingdom that killed its monarchy a la the Russian Revolution.

_The small European kingdom of Rhodia was, at first glance, a paradise, a hidden jewel. The Capitol was truly something to behold. The cobbled streets lined with huge houses of every colour, creating a rainbow as one passed. On the high street there were shops from every famous designer an elite socialite could hope for, not to mention the restaurants were no less than four stars. Around the streets, the wealthy inhabitants of the centre of the Capitol paraded around in their convertibles, coloured in blinding shades of red and silver and white, the fumes sometimes making the air too thick._

_In the very heart of it all stood a grand palace, hundreds of years old, dazzling white walls painted with real gold paint (that is, if the rumours were to be believed), 900 rooms and 1000 servants, ceilings as high as the sky itself, almost every one of them decorated with a sparkling chandelier made out of thousands of tiny diamonds and ornate patterns painstakingly painted by the most skilled artists money could buy. The royal family of Rhodia had ruled there for 400 years, surviving rebellion, assassination and war._

_The current line was unusual in that there was only one child, and therefore one heir. The King had been insistent that his ancestor’s policy of having at least five children to ensure an heir would always exist, in case of an accident or plot leaving the first heir dead, was unnecessary, deciding that no one would dare to touch his family. Prince Charles, being the only child, was the most beloved of his family, particularly the apple of his grandmother Alia’s eye._

_“Must you go, Grandmother?” he whined as she sat on his bed. She ran a hand through his bright blond mop of hair, not one out of place or his mother would have his hide. He may have been nine years old, but he was the heir to the throne, and would look presentable._

_“I’ve stayed too long here, my darling,” she said softly._

_“But London is so far away,” he sighed. “Why can’t I come with you?”_

_“Because what would your father say if I took the sole heir away to a foreign country with me? I might be executed!”_

_“I’d rather be in London than here,” he said, a bitter edge to his voice, too bitter for a child. She shook her head at him._

_“Now, now, we can’t have any of that. You’ll have lots of fun when I’m away, and you’ll forget you ever missed me.”_

_“No I won’t!” he protested._

_“Well, just in case, I had this made for you,” Alia said, taking the trinket out from behind her back. She presented small round box, green with a gold lining, with the words “Together in London” written in gold cursive on the front. As Charles watched with wide eyes, Alia turned the circle at the side, round and round, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen times, and then the lid slowly opened to reveal the likeness of an old woman in a white dress dancing with a small boy in a smart blue suit, a soft music tinkling through the air._

_“Our lullaby!” he squeaked. “So when you’re away, I can still listen!”_

_“Of course, my darling,” she said. “And you mustn’t worry. Just like the box says, one day we will be together in London.”_

_However, a dark shadow threatened to dash the dreams of the young Prince and the elderly Queen Mother. While at first glance, Rhodia was a paradise, when you looked closer you saw what lay beneath. While the rich elite and the royals lived in luxury, many struggled to make ends meet. Unemployment crept up every year, it did not become uncommon for children as young as 14 to drop out of schools and find work elsewhere, in some cases, children aged 8 and 9 would accompany their fathers to their professions after school to prepare themselves, such as servants of the royal family taking their young sons to learn the trade. Food was becoming more and more expensive in the countryside, people struggled to pay rent._

_Eventually, enough became enough for some. Armed with rifles, a new army stormed the palace with the intention to take over, demolish the monarchy and establish the Republic of Rhodia, not two months after the departure of the Queen Mother. Outside the palace, a swarm of protesters ripped statues of the royal family from their stands and burned the once lush gardens to ashes. Inside, they tore the palace apart, searching for the three they saw responsible for their suffering; the King, the Queen and Prince Charles. The royals knew in their hearts that the mob had no intention of letting them live._

_“Come, this way,” the Queen urged her son, half dragging him down the carpet. Outside the window, the sky was turning red, the scene accompanied by screams of both determination and fear and ear-splitting gunshots. The pushed their way through the crowd of horrified servants, hoping to get to their carriage before the barricade was broken through._

_“My music box!” Charlies gasped, remembering the treasure he had left in his bedroom after his governess had woke him in a state of panic. After struggling, he wrenched his arm free from his mother’s hand and turned, fighting against the current of people, back into the blaze and towards his bedroom. His mother did call for him, but his father shook his head and told her to keep running._

_Once safely inside, he bolted the door shut and dived for his dressing table where he left the box. Despite the world falling apart around him, he took a moment to stroke it, the metal cooling his hot skin. He traced the words “together in London” with his finger._

_“In here!” he heard a thick, unfamiliar voice say, shocking him to his core. He knew that that meant of course; the soldiers had got into the palace. And they were close to finding him._

_He was too afraid to move. Even when they banged on the door over and over again. This was it, this was his death. He couldn’t jump out the window, the crowd outside would burn him alive, if the fall alone didn’t kill him._

_He felt something shaking his arm. When he turned, he didn’t see a soldier with murder in his eyes, but a boy his age looking fearful and wearing dirty grey shirt and brown trousers, the uniform of the children of the servants._

_“Come this way,” he gasped. “I know a way out.” Charles numbly followed him, putting his trust in this stranger. The boy pulled at a panel on his bedroom wall and it opened before his eyes. Charles was half sure he was dreaming. “This is a servant’s passageway. You take it.”_

_“Who are you?” Charles asked. The boy shook his head as another bang of the shook caused the room to tremble. He pushed Charles into the passage, causing the box to fall out of his hand. He wanted to go back, to protest, but the boy was already closing the passage, leaving him in darkness._

_When he heard the door break open, heard a man demand to know where he was, he ran. He kept going and going through the dark tunnel until he found himself bursting through a door outside the back of the palace. The rebellion seemed so far away._

_He kept going, crossing the palace gardens, sprinting across the pathways he decorated with chalk, squeezing through the bars of the fence and into the streets, tearing his coat as he went. The streets were so full that no one seemed to notice a small boy with tears running down his face pushing through crowds, fighting against the stitch in his side._

_Eventually, as the crowd pushed him this way and that way, he found himself in an alleyway filled with overflowing rubbish bins. His weary legs made him stumble all over, tripping over his own two feet until he couldn’t hold himself any longer, the tiredness and fear caused him to trip over something and land face down on the concrete._

_The Prince of Rhodia lay face down, bloody and beaten and sobbing, in an alleyway for waste._

_**********************************************************************************_

_Early the next morning, a confused boy in a torn jacket and with a bloody face was brought to a local hospital, filled with other children. Casualties of the revolution, they were called. Most of them with broken legs or burns or separated from their families. But this boy was different._

_When asked his name, he stayed silent, not out of a lack of respect for the nurses, but he did not know. When asked if he knew where his family was, he shook his head. What he was doing the night before. Nothing. A blank slate in his mind. No memory of a house or parents or even friends. He had no idea how he ended up in that alleyway, why he was bleeding, or why he was crying. As if the boy had no life at all before coming to that hospital. All he could tell them was that, for a reason he didn’t know, he had to get to London. In his dreams, someone waited there for him. His family was in London._


	2. Chapter 2

Eight years pass since the execution of the royal family and the declaration of a new Rhodia, a fairer, more equal Rhodia, created and built by the working people to become the envy of the world. Equal wages, ample food, free education. That was the fantasy, the promise of the revolutionaries that had stirred so many people to fight for their side.

The reality however, is a long way off from what had been promised. The reality was walls with ears, skies grey with the smoke the new factories produced, lines all the way down the sidewalk waiting for one loaf of bread to feed their families, as well as running the risk of it being stolen with one of the ten or more people they were cramped into their small flats with under the guise of “equality”. If you’re lucky you get to live in a building that is still in-tact; many buildings were partially destroyed during that fateful night eight years before and had never been repaired, leaving families living with holes in the wall covered with planks of wood. One can’t complain though; not out loud anyway, or they’ll fear being whisked off to who-knows-where. By Tanya’s count, seven high profile people had disappeared form the streets of the Capitol.

In the middle of the square, standing on the marble podium where a statue of the King had once been, a tall woman, brown haired and smiling, addresses a crowd gathering there, her voice bellowing over the worried tones of the ordinary people gathered on the cobblestones.

“I hear you, friends. We all hear you. Together, we forge a new Rhodia, a better country, for all the world to envy. The old Capitol is now the people’s Coal Hill!” she declared, saluting her fellow comrades.

“They can call it Coal Hill,” Tanya mutters, barely loud enough for herself to hear, never mind anyone else. “But it’ll always be the Capitol.” New name, same empty stomachs and uncertain future. She isn’t a monarchist, not by a long shot, but she isn’t with the new regime either. The centre of town should be her least favourite part of the whole city; it’s crowded, it’s loud, you can’t turn around for fear of being abducted. Still, needs must, they have the best markets in the country. And she has to admit, the best gossip. She perches herself on top of an overflowing bin and listens to those who gather in the nearby alley to swap stories, listening to the juiciest secrets about the Chancellor’s allergy to peppers or that the General is bald under that wig (although frankly, he’s not fooling anyone). It’s scummy, maybe, but it gets her through the day.

“Have you heard,” a woman asks in a low voice, so low Tanya is nearly falling off her seat in an attempt to hear. “There’s rumours about the royal family.”

“The royal family!” her companion scoffs. “They were gunned down in their own home and good riddance to them!”

“Yes, but apparently,” the woman continues, casting a glare to her friend and slipping a pile of folded up paper, maybe three or four sheets. “Although the King and Queen didn’t live, there’s a chance their son may be still alive.”

Tanya shakes her head. Of course, she would be shocked, had she not heard the same rumour yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. It was the Capitol’s favourite story, buzzing around when officers weren’t around, whispered in alleyways spies didn’t look twice at, through cracks in walls. It was nothing more than a rumour, albeit a rumour that was woven into their history.

Tanya should know that there’s no point in wondering; the prince died with his parents the night the rebels stormed the palace. Everyone knows that.

Still, there is talk that they never found a body.

“But look!” one of the women says, pointing at the paper. “Just last week, the Queen Mother declared a reward. A royal sum for the royal prince.”

Now she is interested. She leans against the prickly and cold brick wall behind her and watches the women, listening intently to every detail of their conversation, all the while a plan comes together in her brain. She needs one of those newspapers. She can’t possibly make a plan without all the variables. When the one with the paper makes to leave, she jumps down and cuts her off.

“Hello there,” she greets, her eyes straying to the bulge in the woman’s pocket despite her attempts to focus on her face.

“What is it, girl?” she scoffs, having no time for a rough-sleeping street orphan like her.

“That paper,” she whispers. “Can I have a look at it?”

“You can have more than a look,” she offers, raising an eyebrow. “For the right price.”

“Of course.” Tanya wants to laugh at her, thinking she can possibly beat her at a game she became a professional at before the age of ten, one that had been her key to survival. “I don’t suppose this would be of any use to you?” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out what would look like a gold necklace. In reality, it was a few wires she had braided together and then painted gold with some paint she found on a street corner, swiped when the artist had her back turned, then returned of course. “Found it in the ruins of the palace. Solid gold, of course, rumoured to have belonged to the Queen’s sister.” The woman’s eyes light up greedily when she sees it, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth.

“Deal,” she says, practically swiping it out of Tanya’s hand and replacing it with the paper.

“Sucker,” Tanya whispers as the woman scurries away. She perches herself back on the bin, scanning the area for officers while reading the article. Most of it is a history lesson; how the royals were killed, and their associates and other nobles fled, all things Tanya knows like the back of her hand. She doesn’t need a reminder of that night. Some things you don’t easily forget.

But it’s the bottom of the page that’s different; the bottom of the page states that the Queen Mother, living in London, is still holding out hope that her grandson survived. And she’s prepared to offer a £10,000,000 reward to whoever returns the Prince, the real Prince (since she also states that she’s been tricked too many times) to her, safe and sound.

Tanya’s eyes light up at the prospect, focussing entirely on the reward money. She had never had that much money in her wildest dreams. Splitting it among her friends would still leave a sizeable amount for her. Enough to buy herself a cosy place in London and probably eat full meals every night until she dies of old age.

It was prefect.

“Tanya!” April calls, jogging up to her, carrying a half-full bag of food. Matteusz and Ram trail behind her, both with their own sorry looking bags.

“Word is they’ve closed off another border,” Ram huffs. “I’ve told you all, we should have gotten out of here while we could! Borders are dropping like flies.”

“I’ve nearly got the travel papers,” Matteusz assures him. “Then we just need a place to live. And means of getting money.”

Tanya was only half listening, her eyes fixed on the paper.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about the Prince Charles,” she remarks in a low voice as they make their way to the two-bedroom, damp hellhole they’ve been calling a home.

“You and the rest of the bloody country,” April replies.

“I say who cares if he’s dead or alive,” Ram sighs.

“You should care,” Tanya says and leans up against a wall, motioning her friends to gather round her. “Because he’s our ticket out.” She flashes the paper in front of them, pointing to the reward amount. Ram’s jaw nearly hits the floor. “We find a boy to play the part, dress him up and get him to London.”

“Look at the reward the grandma is willing to pay,” Ram whispers. April is clearly trying not to look impressed, but she can’t help her eyes widening at the amount.

“Who else could pull it off but us?” she asks. “Think about it, we’ll be millionaires!”

“We’ll be out,” Matteusz adds, but still looking conflicted. Of all the group, he is easily the one with the softest heart. He’s a conman, like them, but one with a fairly guilty conscience.

“We’ll be just another rumour in the Capitol,” she says. “So, come on.” She leads them down the street, away from their normal route, turning towards the old houses, where counts and countesses and dukes and duchesses lived in the time before the revolution. She ducked through a small doorway, motioning for the rest to follow her.

“Where are we going?” Matteusz asked.

“We’ll need something to make it authentic,” Tanya tells him. “Something that belonged to him to show the old lady.” She pulls aside a curtain, revealing a room full of men and women showing off ornate, expensive looking items. “In here there’s an underground market of old stuff people stole from the palace when it was raided.”

“How much for this painting?” one asks, holding up a painting of the palace, so accurate you could have sworn it was a photograph. “It’s the Queen’s, I swear on my life!”

“Count Capaldi’s pyjamas, buy the pair, the perfect keepsake for any royal fanatic!” another calls.

“This was in the palace,” another announces, waving a silk handkerchief in the air. “Initialled with a C. Could be Charles’, where shall we start the bidding?”

“We’ll need something that would have belonged to the Prince. Matteusz, your father worked in the palace, could anything here look like it did?”

“I never came into contact with the Prince,” he tells her, toying with the leather bracelet on his left wrist. “Tanya are you sure about this plan? It’s risking a lot. Which is saying something for us.”

“Yes, it’s risky, but no more than usual,” she says. “We’ll need papers, tickets, nerves of steel.”

“A lot more than usual,” he corrects her. “We can only hope we don’t get shot.”

“You’re welcome to stay here, Matti,” she says. He tenses at that. Yes, it’s dangerous, but remaining in Rhodia is infinitely more dangerous. Tanya sighs, guilt striking her gut, and she puts her hand on his shoulder. He has to bend his knees to let her reach. “I’m sorry, Matti. I’d never leave you here. But you know our best chance is together. And besides, I’ll jump in front of that bullet for you.” He smiles at that.

“Liar,” he replies, but it’s with an easy grin.  He bumps his arm against her shoulder and they stroll over to a stall where April and Ram stand, hands in each other’s back pockets, looking over some items from the palace. They’re mostly inconsequential, pieces of curtains and torn jackets and dresses, but something catches Tanya’s eye. It’s a small box, the glint of the gold on it makes her notice it. She shifts the scarf that half-covers it to get a better look and notices the glittering lettering on it “Together in London”.

“How much for the music box?” she asks the vender. His eyes dart to the box in question and he snatches it up, holding it close to his chest.

“The music box, it’s a genuine royal. I could never part with it,” he explains, stroking the box like a cat. After a brief look with April, a quick nod from her, Tanya rolls her eyes and reaches into April’s bag.

“Two cans of beans, comrade?” she asks, waving them in the air. It takes all of five seconds for the vender to agree to trade his apparent prized possession for some extra food. She holds it up so her friends around her can see it.

“Do you think it belonged to him?” Ram asks.

“He said it was genuine,” Tanya says. “And didn’t the grandmother take off to London?”

“It’s real,” Matteusz says softly. At the sight of the music box, his face goes three shades paler. “It was his.”

“How do you know?” April asks while moving to help him sit, but he swats her away, eyes fixed on the box in Tanya’s hand.

“I just do,” he answers. “I saw it in his bedroom.”

“Thought you never went near the royal family,” Ram says.

“I didn’t. But his bedroom, I hid there when the soldiers came,” he says, and everyone knows to shut up. They all have their own demons from the night of the revolution, and they all made a silent promise to each other not to talk about it. They knew that Matteusz and his father had been in the palace the night they soldier stormed the palace and that Matteusz made it out alive. His father wasn’t so fortunate. He toys with his bracelet again as he speaks. “It was in his bedroom.”

“Okay then,” Tanya announces, leading them out of the room and to a large open window so Matteusz can breathe. “All we need now is a theatre and the boy.” They lean against the window, watching the grey skies, and eventually watch the rain begin to pour down in a slow, steady rhythm.

“Do you guys think he is alive?” April asks. They look from one to the other, all not knowing the Prince’s true fate. Matteusz runs his finger along his bracelet, slowly at first, but starting to get faster, to the point where Tanya worries he’ll wear out the leather.

“It’s a fascinating mystery,” he admits.

“Suppose it will be a bit of a fairy-tale,” April says. “Reuniting the Prince and his long-lost family.”

“A fairy-tale the whole world will believe,” Tanya agrees, looking out to the crowd of people below, walking around the square in groups of two or three, whispering excitedly about the ‘long lost Prince’. Soon she suspects they’ll be whispering about her and Ram and April and Matteusz, the group who reunited the royal family.

It’s a pity that Tanya lost her belief in fairy tales long before the Prince went missing.

                                                                                                                

* * *

 

A day’s drive from the Capitol, stood a tall, concrete structure with a high, barbed wire fence and a door with a heavy iron knocker. To an ignorant passer-by, it would look like a prison, but bizarrely, and unfortunately, it was an orphanage. It housed mostly orphans of the revolution, as they were called, children whose parents were killed in the chaos, or whose families had had ties to the royals and were killed while they look on, horrified.  Children who waved their fathers and mothers goodbye that morning as they went to work and never came home.

Charlie is dragged out from the orphanage by his scarf by the Matron, tripping over his feet as he turned to wave goodbye to the children with their faces pressed against the windows, watching him leave. It happened every time an orphan turned 17, they were found work and sent out to the first place that hired them. It only took a small five months for them to find Charlie a position in a factory, boxing fish. And they said jobs weren’t easy to come by in this new regime.

“Will you come on!” she snaps, giving his scarf another tough yank. “For the past eight years….” Here it was. The lecture Charlie had been subjected to every damn year. The only part of the lecture that ever changed was the amount of years as he grew older. “I’ve fed you, clothed you, kept you clean and off the streets, kept you warm with a roof over your head, all while you stride around, acting like the King of Sheba-”

She stops abruptly when she turns to look at him and finds Charlie giving a not-so-flattering pantomime of her speech. She’s not amused and shows as much with a sharp smack on his face.

“How is it that you do not have a clue who you were before you came here, but you can remember all that?” she asks, dragging him by the ear to the gate.

“Ow, ow, ow, stop it,” he begs, swatting at her. “You know I hate that. And anyway, I do have a clue.”

“Oh, your prophetic dreams?” she asks mockingly. “Your gut instinct that your family is in London?”

“Exactly,” he says, tugging at his jacket.

“So, you want to go to England to find your family?” she asks. “Well grow up, child. You’ll never have the money nor means to get to England. Now go on, away with you. This job was difficult for me to find for you. I had to fight tooth and nail.”

“Just for me, Matron. I knew you had a soft spot for me,” he says, running away before he can get another clip on the ear. He runs down the route she has drilled into him; jogging down the path until he finds himself at a crossroads. One sign, pointing left, goes to Akhaten, the small fishing village where his career lies. Thirty, maybe fourth years of boxing stinking fish on a conveyor belt. And on the right, there is the Capitol. The place where he could get tickets, money, a train. A way out. A way home, he dared to think.

“Turn left,” he says, mocking Matron’s high voice. “I know what’s left. I’ll be Charlie the orphan forever. But if I were to go right….” His voice trails off and he rolls his eyes at his own stupidity. “Me? Go to London? Yeah, right.” But he feels in his gut that he needs to go. Ever since his first days in the orphanage, there’s been a voice in the back of his mind screaming “London, London, London”. All he has seen of the city was in old films; drinking in the skyline and tall buildings, scanning the crowds for a familiar face, hoping some small detail would jump out and jog his memory.

“I need a sign,” he calls out, begging some unseen force. “Something to tell me what I should do.”

He’s not entirely sure what kind of sign he’s looking for. Nevertheless, he gets his scarf pulled off him by… something. He turns and finds a small dog, grey fur only slightly messy, holding his scarf in his mouth, panting.

“Very cute, little man,” he remarks. “Now can I have that back?” The dog cocks his head and whines before backing up. There’s a glint in the little fella’s eye that shows Charlie it’s all in good fun. “Ha ha. But come on, I need that.”

The blasted dog scampers off in the other direction.

“Come back!” Charlie calls, running after him. He chases him down easily, of course. He’s a small dog and Charlie’s fast. He lifts him up and tries to pull the scarf out of his mouth, with little success. “Come on, that’s not fair, I’m already going to be late….” His voice trails off when he stands and takes in his surroundings. He chased the dog right, away from Akhaten and the fish factory, towards the Capitol.

In fairness, he did ask for a sign. He just didn’t think it would be this furry. Or cute.

“Okay,” he breathes, looking out at the path before him. Grey skies and a concrete road. Cars and trains pass in the distance. He can always go back, take the safe route and live out his quiet, normal, uneventful life. A life not knowing who he is.

He can’t afford to lose his courage right now. All his life, well all that he remembers, he’s stood up to and backtalked Matrons, snuck out after curfew, hidden food in his jacket and ate it alone. And yet it’s this that scares him. He doesn’t remember feeling so small, the world feeling so vast.

The dog nudges against his legs, pushing him forward. One foot goes in front of the other and again and again and he’s walking down the road.

Somewhere at the end of this road, there’s his family. Someone is out there waiting for him to come home. He thinks that it’s silly to keep hope alive at this point, eight years and no one has come for him, but he also thinks that years of dreams can’t just be wrong. It all has to lead to something for him. Doesn’t it?

The road leads into another small town that he doesn’t know the name of. People are just getting up to start their day; shops opening, people coming out of houses, full buses crawling down the roads.

At the first house he passes, he sees a mother holding a little boy’s hand, sees a father carrying a girl who looks barely one. All of them smile, the father kisses the little girl and the mother laughs at a bad joke the boy tells her. He has to stop and look at the scene; he’s seen the same thing in book and films, but it’s completely alien to him.

Home, love, family. There must have been a time where he had those things too. When he was found, he was found in an expensive jacket, one that the orphanage sold to keep their bills paid. But whoever got him that coat must have loved him once.

And he’ll never be complete until he finds them.

Lifting the dog in his arms, he continues through the town, gaining speed and confidence with each step until he’s practically running through, dodging in and out of townsfolk and apologising. This road could be leading anywhere, but he’s following it since it’s the only one he has right now. Down towards his future; back to his past. Finally finding out why after so many years; why was he in that alley, why no one came back for him.

As he runs up a hill, he sees it in the distance. The tall spires and bright lights of the Capitol beckoning him. He feels dwarfed by the scene, one he’s only ever seen in posters and drawings. He’s never even set foot in the city before, and yet here he is, standing breathless staring at it, his newly adopted dog still pushing him even now.

Well, if that wasn’t a sign, he doesn’t know what is.

“Please be mine,” he whispers before pushing onwards, running down the hill and towards the tall gates of the city.

Running home, he hopes.

                                                                                                

* * *

 

Matteusz knew this was a stupid plan from the get-go. Aside from having terrifyingly slim chances of actually working out, it’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong, and he knows that his friends know it’s wrong. It’s one thing for him to trick people into buying fake gold necklaces or trading cheap watches for extra food. After a few years, he’s come to term with the fact that it’s a necessary evil, and he makes it a policy not to target those who can’t afford to lose anything. It’s another thing entirely for him to attempt to trick someone into thinking she’s reunited with her long-lost grandchild and only surviving relative.

And anyway, it’s not like the auditions to find the boy are going any better.

“Grandmama,” a man clearly in his forties breaths, voice thick and gravely, throwing his heavy fur coat to the side. “It’s me, Charles.”

They four exchange nervous looks. Matteusz can smell the cigarette smoke from his seat. He searches for a way to let him down easily, but Ram beats him to it.

“I don’t think you’re exactly what we’re looking for,” he says. “Next.” The man storms off the stage in a huff, swinging his coat over his shoulder in very unroyal manner; he stumbles on the way off and Matteusz is almost certain he ends up falling headfirst. He never would have worked out. Charles never used “grandmama”. Only “grandmother” or “nana” when he was being extra affectionate.

“Oh brother,” Tanya sighs, placing her head on her arms.

“Still think this plan is brilliant?” Matteusz asks dryly. Tanya responds with a rather inappropriate gesture with her hand.

“Someone will come,” April says, ever the optimist. It’s simultaneously Matteusz’s favourite and least favourite quality about her. “Or maybe we could call one of them? I mean that first guy was good.”

“Was he?” Tanya asks. “How hard can it be to find a 17-year-old boy who looks vaguely like a probably dead prince?” Matteusz wants to respond with ‘evidently very hard’ but holds it back. Partially because Tanya doesn’t need that right now and also because there’s a good chance she’ll smack him for that comment.

The theatre door opening grabs their attention. They’ve set themselves up in what was a theatre that only the richest of the rich could afford. Much of it is still intact, the only real damage being the windows and balcony doors are now smashed and boarded up and it hasn’t been in use in eight years. Everything else was still there; high done shaped ceiling with detailed pictures of angels painted on, rows upon rows of seats with thick, soft red cushions, a high wooden stage, painted gold and protected with thick purple curtains, and a high crystal chandelier. It’s a miracle that it was never harmed.

They turn to the door, worrying that it’s an officer who has heard of their little plan. Fortunately for them, it’s a boy around their age, wearing a green jacket slightly too big for him and a scar wound around his neck. He stops halfway down the aisle, shuffling under their gaze.

“I… I’m looking for Matteusz,” he asks in a small voice, and all three of his friends turn to look at him.

“I’m Matteusz,” he says, standing. The boy creeps closer, and Matteusz can see the small grey puppy nestled in his arms. He’s stroking the dog’s fur rhythmically. Matteusz can recognise a nervous tick when he sees it.

“Um, the word on the street is that you can get someone travel papers,” he says. “Is that true? I’m not supposed to tell you who I heard it from, though.”

“Um…. Yes, it is,” he replied. Up close, he can see the boy’s good looking. A head of floppy but neat blonde hair and a strong looking body underneath his jacket and light blue eyes. Not to mention a nervous, crooked smile that Matteusz could fall for under different circumstances. “But, the thing is….”

“Is that a puppy?” Tanya interrupts, almost squealing. Matteusz is shocked to say the least; Tanya Adeola does not squeal. She just does not. But she runs right up to the boy, eyes glued to the small dog in his arms.

“Do you want to hold him?” he asks, and Tanya nods enthusiastically. He hands her the half-asleep dog, who nestles into her arms with ease. Everyone in the room watches her heart melt.

“He’s so precious,” she whispers, before looking up to their new guest. “Now, you’re looking travel papers?” He nods. “Where are you looking to go?”

“London,” he answers.

“What’s in London?” April asks, perching herself on the table they’d been using for auditions. He shifts, running his hand up and down his leg.

“Um, well, that’s a long story,” he replies.

“Okay well let’s shorten it,” Matteusz says. “What’s your name?”

“Charlie.”

“Don’t have a last name?” Tanya asks, giving little air kisses to the dog.

“Well… that’s the awkward part. I don’t know my last name,” he says. “Or my first name, really. Charlie is just what the Matrons in the orphanage called me.”

“The orphanage?” Matteusz asks. He feels guilty for prying, but you don’t get stories from the orphanage a lot. And he can tell Charlie wants to share.

“Yes. I was found on the street when I was nine years old,” he explains. “And I woke up in the hospital. They asked me where my parents were, what my name was, where I lived. And I couldn’t answer. They said something must have happened to me, shock or assault or something. Said my memories would come back to me but so far there’s nothing. I don’t remember anything before I came there, and they called me Charlie.”

“You were found?” Tanya asks, studying his face. “Do you know when?”

“The night of the revolution,” he answers, visibly trying not to wince. That night brings bad memories back for all of them. “They suspect that whoever my parents were, they were killed.” That hits all of them. There is barely a child in Rhodia who didn’t lose one or both parents that night.

“But you don’t remember it?” April whispers, her hand wrapped tightly round Ram’s. He shakes his head.

“I mean, in my dreams, things come to me. Bits and pieces, dark shadows, a light at the end of a hall,” he explains. “Fire and people screaming. They said it’s normal. PTSD.” No-one says anything, but they all understand. Matteusz has seen Ram break down screaming, woken up himself from nightmares of watching his family be struck down. He shakes his head, a too bright smile on his face. “But I know everything’s going to come back one day.”

“And then what’s with London?” Ram asks in a low voice. His grip on April’s hand is so tight his knuckles are white.

“Um, well…” Charlie blushes and Matteusz tries and fails not to find it adorable. “That’s my dreams again. I dream of a city beyond anything I’ve ever seen before. A clock tower and a river with a bridge and someone tells me they’ll meet me there. That we’ll be together again.” As he talks, he seems to look through them rather than at them, lost in the winding corridors of his mind, before he comes back to reality. “And then I was told to come here, to you, because you have travel papers. Or so they say.”

Matteusz takes a while to realise that Charlie is looking at him, and a little longer for him to realise what to say.

“Um, yes, well, I can get travel papers,” he mumbled. “But…” Getting travel papers isn’t an easy feat. It involves a lot of meetings in back alleys and bribing officials with his dwindling supply of cash that he and his father had earned working in the palace. And with Tanya’s insane plan, he has to fork out for another set of papers, which can take even longer to process.

“Well, we’re on our way to having five sets of papers,” Tanya interrupts. “But the fifth is for him.” The dog still nestled into her right arm, she pulls the folded-up article out of her pocket and showed it to Charlie.

“Prince Charlies?” he asks, his nose wrinkling.

“You see, we plan to reunite the Queen Mother with her grandson,” Tanya explains, cocking her head to the side, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smile. “You know, you do sort of look like him.”

“She’s right,” Ram remarks, coming closer to the scene. “You have the Queen’s chin.”

“The King’s nose,” April adds. Charlie keeps looking at the photo, and Matteusz has to agree. He does have a strange, striking resemblance to the Charles. He even had the same eyes. The royal family’s eyes.

“Have you ever considered that you could be... you know?” Tanya asked.

“That I could be royalty?” he asked, half laughing. “Well it’s hard to think highly of yourself when you’re lying on the cold floor at night.”

“Think about it,” April tells him. “You don’t know what happened to you. No-one knows what happened to him. He disappeared the night of the revolution, you don’t remember anything before the revolution.” Matteusz prides himself on not being violent, but he honestly wants to slap April at this point.

“Well,” Charlie says, looking at the picture again. “I mean… I guess every lonely boy would hope he’s a Prince.”

 _And somewhere, one little boy is_ Matteusz thinks, and immediately wants to kick himself. Charles is dead. He’s dead, dead, dead. And he’s not coming back. No matter how much he thinks about him.

“Well, we’d love to help, but like we said, the fifth ticket is for Prince Charles,” Tanya says, handing him back the dog. “But good luck and I hope you find what you’re looking for.” She turns him around and nudges him in the direction of the door. She gives him a light shove and he blindly stumbles towards the door, despite the dog’s sounds of protests, while Tanya flounces back to the table.

“What did you do that for?” Ram asks. “Why didn’t you tell him-”

“He only wants to go to London,” Tanya replies, her eyes still on Charlie. “No need to split the money further.”

“We’re walking away too soon,” April hisses. Tanya shakes her head, a proud smile on her face.

“Three, two, one-” she whispers, counting down on her fingers.

“Wait,” Charlie says, running back down to them. His hand is buried in the dog’s fur. “If I don’t know who I really am, then who’s to say I’m not a prince, right?”

“Right,” Tanya agrees.

“And-and if I’m not, then the Queen Mother will know right away, and it was all a misunderstanding,” he continues.

“Either way, you get to London,” Ram replies. Charlie nods, a nervous smile beginning to grace his lips.

“Well, let’s do it,” he says.

“You’re serious?” Tanya asks, almost bouncing. It’s times like this Matteusz remembers she’s only fourteen and is both impressed with her and what she has done to survive and saddened that she has to do it.

“Yes,” he sighs, and it’s final. Tanya goes around introducing them one by one and talking to him about something Matteusz can’t quite hear. His attention is focussed on Charlie, watching as he half-listens to Tanya, half looks at the room around them, frowning slightly. The dog wriggles out of his arms and jumps to the group, nuzzling at Tanya’s legs, darting in and out of the seats. Tanya goes chasing after him, as does April, and Ram watches April, leaving Charlie looking out into the vast row of seats, eyes flickering to the chandelier, the stage mouth moving slightly, whispering something he can’t hear.

Matteusz is only a few feet from him, but Charlie seems to be in another world.

“Are you okay?” he asks eventually.

Charlie jumps at the question, the cloud in his eyes lifting as he looks at Matteusz, pink spreading across his cheeks.

“Fine, fine,” he mumbles. “It’s just…. I have the strangest feeling that I’ve been here before.”

 

  _Let this be a sign, let this road be mine_

_Let it lead me to my past_

_And bring me home_

_At last_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments to feed my hungry ego if you liked it.  
> Also there seems to be a subplot in which Tanya gets a dog so we're running with that.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s cold in her new office. That’s Quill’s first realisation. When her promotion came in last week, all she had been thinking about was the extra money and respect from her superiors and envy from those below her. She hadn’t even given a thought to the fact she’d move out of her small-but-cosy room with the easy chatter and comfort of her three colleagues and into her own, white-walled, spacious office with one small window that meant the sun was either never there or in her eyes. As she sits at her desk, the desk she hasn’t even had for a week, she pulls her regulation jacket tighter around her. Dark blue replacing green; she has officially moved from Sergeant to Lieutenant. The jacket feels too loose on her, leaving too much shoulder room and ending too far down her thin legs.

Her office is mostly bare, she doesn’t want to look too sentimental. Sentimentality implies weakness. Her computer sits tightly in the right hand corner of her desk. Her pens are lying in a row, three black, three blue, three red, close to her right hand, a stack of crisp, blank lined paper on her left. Her three drawers contain empty cardboard files, eager for use.

The only splash of colour, or evidence of a personal life, is the framed photograph she keeps on the left, above the stack of paper. A picture of her daughter two years ago, her black hair in plaits, smiling at the camera, dimples in her perfect cheeks and teeth missing while sitting on Quill’s lap. She has her arms around the child and her chin resting atop her head, smiling too. Her mother took that picture. Kat’s with her mother now; she agreed to take over babysitting until Kat starts school. Then she’s on her own.

She runs her finger down the frame, poking Kat’s nose. That’s why she’s here. For Kat. And this picture is here to remind her of that.

And give her a smile to get through the day.

A knock at the door draws her out of her thoughts. Her secretary, a small blonde girl of nineteen named Rose, ushers in a group of three disgruntled looking young men.           They mutter between them, all wearing shabby looking, stained clothes. The middle one clutches a cloth hat nervously.

“They came here saying they have information,” Rose says in a soft voice. “Regarding Prince Charles.”

Quill nods. Another sighting in the street, another rumour flying around. Every other week, someone will come in swearing they saw the Prince in the market, on the train, in the park. It’s never him and it never will be him, because he died that night. For the good of the country, he died.

“Thank you,” she says, dismissing Rose. She gets up from her chair and leans on the front of her desk. “Now, what information do you have?”

“There’s a group of people,” the middle one says hurriedly, as if he was holding this back for a while. “A group of four people, and they’re holding auditions to find a boy to play Prince Charles. Said they’ll take him to London and try to earn the Queen Mother’s reward.”

“Interesting,” she says. “And how did you come by this?” They look nervously from one to the other. She bites back a laugh. None of them look remotely young enough to pull off playing the Prince.

“We saw them doing it,” the one on the left mumbles. It’s a weak answer if she’s ever seen one. “And they have their boy now. He looks just like him.” Quill fights the urge to roll her eyes. They all look just like him, they all sound just like him, and in the end it is never him. “The mastermind, her name’s Tana Adeola, dark skin, black hair, braids. Then there’s this other girl, blue eyes and brown hair, and this guy, he’s tall and got dark hair, and this tall buff looking guy.”

“And the boy playing the Prince,” another one butts in. “His name’s Charlie. Apparently he doesn’t have a last name. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Looks a lot like the King.”

“Thank you,” she says, jotting down their concerns on the first sheet of paper from the pile, the pen gliding over the lines. “Any information we hear regarding the royals, even the most farfetched story, is taken very seriously and we greatly appreciate you coming here, comrade.” When she sits back at her desk again, she looks up to find them still there, looking at her expectantly. “You can go now.”

She has never been one for formalities anyway. She sighs as they scurry out, tripping over one another to be the first out the door and looks back to the paper in her hand.

Her job dictates that she takes it to her superior. Which would be Captain Dorothea Ames, the woman she has only ever seen in the corridor, a flash of red and brown. What she wants to do is shove this under her desk and ignore it as the nonsense it is. He’s dead. All the royal family are dead. Instead, she pulls herself out of her office and heads to Dorothea’s, at the end of the corridor.

She is let in by a guard at Dorothea’s door. The woman herself is sat behind her desk, bigger than Quill’s is and far more cluttered. She looks up when she hears Quill coming in, her face expressionless. Quill clutches her notes a little tighter.

“What is it Lieutenant?” she asks.

“I have news concerning the royals,” she replies, and Dorothea’s head shoots up in an instant. She shoos the guard out of the room and invites Quill to sit on the thin grey chairs opposite her desk.

“What news?” she asks, her voice hushed and worried. If Quill didn’t know better, she’d think the Captain was scared.

“According to some locals, a group of people have been holding auditions to find an actor to play Prince Charles. They’ve found some boy they plan to pass off to the Queen Mother as the real thing,” she says, handing Dorothea her notes. She holds her breath as her superior reads over them, her eyes darkening with every word.

“Find them,” she says. “Try to bring them all in, but if you can’t, get the boy playing the Prince. Tell him the consequences of playing this sort of game. Hopefully we can nip this in the bud before things get too messy.”

Quill finches at the words ‘too messy’. She saw enough messes eight years ago. That’s why she’s here, to stop them from ever happening again.

“Why?” she dares to ask. “What does it matter? It can’t be him. He’s gone.” Dorothea looks up at her, conflict in her cool brown eyes. “The Prince is gone, what does a lookalike pretending to be one to trick an old lady matter?”

“It matters,” she says. “Because as long as this boy is around, convincing people he is the Prince, that keeps the memory of the royal family alive. Keeps their legacy alive. People can start looking to them instead of focussing on what really matters. On the Republic. The sooner this light is snuffed out, the better it is for everyone. You, me, the country, and even this boy and his friends.”

 _Focussing on you_ she thinks but doesn’t dare say out loud.

“In any case, he’s dead,” she says, unsure if she’s reminding herself or the Captain. “He died eight years ago.” Dorothea just looks at her, her mouth on the verge of opening, calculating what answer to give.

“It would take a miracle for him to have survived,” she replies after what feels like an eternity. “But for now, it’s irrelevant if he is the Prince or not. What matters is shooting down this conspiracy. You have your orders, Lieutenant.”

“Indeed.”

As she exits Dorothea’s office and makes her way back to her own, she begins to remember the rumours that surfaced after the revolution, that people saw the Prince escaping through the back of the castle. That soldiers who searched for the bodies only found the King and Queen, no Prince, and people began to whisper that another child, a cousin or servant, was shot in his place.

She never believed rumours. For her, only hard evidence can be believed, and there’s no evidence that the Prince survived beyond petty whisperings.

But there’s also no proof he was definitely killed.

                                                                                                

* * *

 

“So, when do we go to London?” Charlie asks, bouncing slightly. The new hope he’s been given since agreeing to travel with his new found… associates has made his blood sizzle with energy he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

“Matteusz has to get travel papers before we go anywhere,” Tanya explains. Charlie glances over at the boy in question, who is sitting on the stage, his toes just barely touching the floor. He takes a small look at Charlie before his eyes go back to the floor. “And that will give us just enough time to bring you up to speed.”

“Up to speed?” Charlie repeats.

“Well you can’t just appear in front of the Queen Mother not knowing anything about yourself,” she explains, her hands stuffed in her pockets. “You’ll have to do a little bit of learning.”

“Basically, the entire history of your family for the last 100 years,” Ram says from where he’s sitting, feet up on the chair in front of him and his arm around the other girl, April. “Give or take.”

“What?” Charlie splutters. “You just said I have to go to London, you never said I had to prove I was the Prince.”

“Well you never gave us the chance!” Tanya argues.

Charlie briefly considers storming out the door right now. It’s one thing to try to act and look like a Prince but memorising years and years of history is beyond him. Probably beyond anyone. No one has spoken about the royal family out loud since the revolution and he doesn’t remember anything before that. He’s probably the least qualified person in the country for this task.

“Well, you said everything might come back to you one day,” Tanya reminds him. “What if this, you know, puts you on the track to remembering?”

And that stops Charlie’s spiral. She has a point. His memories must still be back there, tucked in some dark corner of his mind. All that may be needed is a spark to bring them back into the light.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Where do we start.”

“At the beginning,” April says. She and Tanya exchange a knowing look before she jumps up and crosses over to him.

“April here knows a lot more about the royal family than any of us do,” Matteusz explains.

“My dad was a general in the army,” she explains. The mention of her father brings tension to her shoulders. “He came face-to-face with the King on some occasions.” She brushes an imaginary lock of hair off her face. “And he taught me everything I needed to know about the royal family.”

“I don’t know,” Charlie says, shifting nervously. “Memory doesn’t seem to be my strong suit.”

“You’ll be fine,” April sighs. “Now close your eyes.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “Just close them.” He sighs to himself but does what she says. “And imagine another time. You were born in a palace by the sea.”

“A palace by the sea?” he echoes, doubt lacing his voice. So far, nothing in his mind surfaces, no memory of looking out the window at the water, no memory of a mother holding him.

“Yes, now shush,” April snaps. “You rode horseback when you were just three…”

“I’m not sure I’m much of a horseback person,” he replies, opening his eyes. “I have very little balance.”

“Are you going to interrupt the whole thing?” April asks, but there’s not harshness to her words and she’s almost giggling. It’s nice to be around her; someone who just smiles and makes him feel safe.

“Sorry, continue,” he says.

“The horse was called Romeo!” Ram adds in, helpfully from his seat.

“You threw the worst tantrums as a kid,” April goes on. “According to my dad there were times you’d make the whole palace shake.”

“Charming child,” Tanya scoffs.

“But when your father gave you that look, you’d behave,” April adds. “Can you picture it?”

“Sort of,” he admits. He can imagine a little boy like him screaming in the middle of a ballroom, sitting on the back of a horse, running around on the beach in the company of a faceless mother and father. But it’s not remembering. It’s like he’s watching someone else’s life.

“Good, because there is a whole lot we need to get through,” she says. “And not a whole lot of time.”

Charlie’s first lesson is how to walk like a prince, and at first he thinks (or rather hopes) that they’re joking. He thinks to himself that if he had known there would be this much learning, this much humiliation, he’d have taken his chances on the streets of the Republic, but he knows he’s not serious. The only thing pulling him through all this is knowing he is one step closer to finding who he is.

“Head up, shoulders back,” Tanya instructs, pulling and poking at every appropriate body part, moulding him into… well the person he used to be. She makes him close his eyes and imagine he’s gliding down a full ballroom. He feels himself wobble as he puts one foot in front of the other, worrying about potentially bumping into something. “You’re not walking, you’re floating.”

“I think I’m walking,” he corrects her, still with his eyes closed. “Does it look like I’m floating?”

“Like a sinking boat,” Ram mutters, but he hears it. He admires a lot about Ram in the short space of time they have spent together; his cynicism is not one of them. Even if he isn’t completely optimistic himself. They repeat the damn exercise back and forth for what must be hours, all while Tanya asks Charlie the appropriate way to greet dukes and duchesses and lords and ladies and addressing servants. To put it mildly, it’s tedious.

“Now bow,” April instructs, finally giving Charlie some variety.. He opens his eyes and bows elegantly, even twirling his hand as he bends down. “You’re getting it.”

“Nothing to it,” he lies.

“Good, because that’s the easy part,” Tanya says, sitting with an open book on her lap. “Because you’ve still got an entire family tree to get through. Charlie throws his head back and groans. ‘Prince-training’ as they had taken to calling it stopped being fun about….. well he thought it stopped being fun after the third lap of the stage.

Behind him, he sees Matteusz stifling a grin. He responds to Charlie by pulling on his air, pulling an over-exaggerated frustrated face. This time it’s Charlie’s turn to try not to laugh.

“Just tell yourself it’s easy,” Matteusz advises.

“Nothing to it,” he repeats through gritted teeth, making Matteusz chuckle again.

The fun is short lived, because in the blink of an eye he is sitting on the edge of the stage, learning too many names too quickly and answering too many question to count. He ends up sitting on the edge of the stage with Tanya standing over him reading from her book, occasionally bending down to let him see. Despite how small she is, she reminds him a bit of Matron.

“Who is your great grandmother?” Tanya asks.

“Queen Donna,” he responds, with no effort to hide how disinterested he is. He flicks a pen between his fingers, each time the rhythm gets faster.

“Great-great grandmother?” she asks.

“Um… uh… Princess Martha of Raxan-Rhodia,” he stammers, fumbling at first over the name. If Tanya notices, she doesn’t press. She fires questions and he answers almost as quickly, naming his former aunts, uncles, cousins at the drop of a hat. The names don’t bring back memories like he had hoped, they’re just labels to attach to faces in Tanya’s book. He can’t conjure them up in his mind or think anything about them beyond the facts and figures Tanya tells him. As the day goes on he grows more and more frustrated, causing him to forget simple names and match them to the wrong faces. The more it went on, the more the frustration builds in him, little pinpricks in his chest and hands at first, which turn to sizzling heat that fires up and down his arms and legs and across his chest. He presses his hands in the wood of the stage, bounces his leg, picks at his nails so much they’re almost gone.

He cannot remember. For the love of all things holy, he cannot remember a thing.

“Maybe we should take a break,” April suggests, lowering Tanya’s book and giving a small nod to Charlie. Tanya winces slightly and closes the book.

“Good idea, I think we could all use a break from history,” she says sheepishly.

“Agreed,” Charlie says, jumping off the stage and heading for the door. “I need some air.” He doesn’t look back at any of them, all the can focus on is the door and the cold night air on the other side of it. He let himself sink to the ground, his head against the brick wall of the theatre. He pulled his collar up around his face, not that anyone was paying attention to him. He was just one of hundreds of kids on the street.

The door creaked open beside him and April slipped out. She crept beside him, knees tucked to her chest, just like he was.

“Tanya realised she pushed you too hard,” she says. “I mean, she’d say sorry if she could but her pride…”

“It wasn’t her fault,” he replies. “It’s mine. I can’t remember anything, April.”

“You will,” she insists. “Just not yet.” He shakes his head and rests his chin on his arm. April nudges him with her elbow. “Hey, look. If there’s one thing I learned about the prince of Rhodia is that he could do anything if he tried.”

“We don’t even know if I am the Prince,” he reminds her.

“True,” she says. “But I know you’re a fighter. And I know you didn’t come this far to be bested by a book.” They laugh together, and he realises she’s right. “So, what do you say? One more go?” She holds out her hand.

“One more go,” he agrees, taking her hand.

The next day, he gets better. There are still no tangible memories, but he gets better at naming people, naming things he supposedly used to do, small secrets only the prince could know, as well as anyone with connections to the royals. It becomes almost fun, something of a game. Seeing how quickly he can fire back answers. Tanya enjoys it, and even Ram starts smiling.

“Your cousin Danny,” she begins.

“General in the army, loved the park.”

“The duchess of Infarni?”

“Incredibly short.”

“Duke of Lankin?”

“Had a wart he did everything to hide.”

“Apparently, he’s gotten rather fat,” April calls out, sitting on the floor with Ram’s head in her lap. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

“I wonder if he still has that yellow cat,” Charlie remarks. As he and Tanya continue going back and forth, April tenses behind them, her hand freezing in Ram’s hair.

“What is it?” he asks quietly. April shakes her head, but she doesn’t stop looking at Charlie, her eyes wide. When her hand returns to running through Ram’s hair, her fingers are shaking.

“Nothing,” she says. “I just don’t think we ever told him that.”

Days go by, Charlie keeps learning and reading about his past. He learns more about the group too, superficial, surface level things, but he enjoys it. He learns that April played the fiddle and that Tanya loves apples and that Ram is good at sports and that Matteusz is actually from Poland but moved to Rhodia when he was six and Charlie was five.

Charlie wants to ask if he ever wished he’d stayed where he was. That way he’d have never had to live through the revolution and the new regime and he would probably still be in a house rather than living in an abandoned theatre. He doesn’t ask, however much he might want to.

As he sits cross legged against the stage, he sees Tanya open her mouth, ready to test him again, and something snaps in him.

“I hated caviar, I loved stroganoff, my aunt had a feathered hat, I threw tantrums, I went to balls, my cousin drank, my uncle had a cat and I had a horse called Romeo,” he sighs, the words falling out of him one after the other.

“Holy shit,” Matteusz mutters from beside him, and it takes a few moments for Charlie to remember.

“I did it!” he laughs. April leaps from her seat and runs over to hug him. Matteusz steps forward and for one brief moment, Charlie hopes he’ll hug him too, but he settles for flinging his arm around his shoulders and squeezing briefly before letting go. Ram pats his back only slightly too hard.

“Knew you could do it,” Tanya says, her smile bright and honest.

“Nothing to it,” Charlie answers, feeling slightly breathless from it all. Nothing feels familiar, but at least now he’s a step closer in the right direction.

                                                                                                

* * *

 

Quill finds the little group of con artists sitting outside the old theatre in the heart of the Capitol. They all match the descriptions the three rejects gave to their sketch artist. They sit cross legged almost in a perfect circle, whispering and giggling about something. She stations herself a few feet from the group, half hidden behind the wall of another building. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but she can see them close enough and damn it, he does look like the old King. Even as he sits and laughs at something his companion says.

There’s four with him. Three around his age; two other boys and a girl, and one who looks younger, about fourteen. The fourteen year old turns round and Quill sees her more clearly; wide eyes and her hair in braids and a coat that looks too big. She looks like her daughter. Or rather, she looks like what her daughter might look like in a few years.

She decides there and then she will only bring in the false-Prince. Even if that means waiting in the cold for him.

It does mean waiting. She stands for about half an hour until he moves, carrying a paper bag towards an overflowing bin. Without looking at the other girl, she marches towards him and meets him there.

“Charlie?” she asks. He looks up, his mouth slightly open.

“Yes,” he says after a moment’s hesitation.

“Charlie without the surname?” He only nods. She takes her badge out of her coat and shows him. “Lieutenant Andrea Quill. I need you to come with me.”

“Have I done something wrong?” he asks, looking at his group to her again. Quill suppresses a groan when one of his companions, the tall white boy, starts running up to them, not even bothering to do up his jacket.

“Not yet,” she replies. “You might be if you don’t come with me.” Charlie pauses, turning back to look at his companion. She can see in his face that he is working it out for himself. “No point getting too many people involved in this.”

“Charlie,” his companion asks. “What is it? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Matteusz,” he says. “I just need to go with the Lieutenant here for a moment.” Matteusz looks at Quill, chewing his lip. His hand moves closer to Charlie. He doesn’t trust her and in some ways, she doesn’t blame him. The very look of him tells her he’s done at least five illegal things, and her job would dictate she bring him in. But she’s got bigger problems.

Charlie places a hand on his shoulder, trying to give him a reassuring smile.

“Matteusz, it’s okay,” he says. “I’ll go with her and I’ll come straight back.” When he turns to look at Quill, the fire in his eyes takes her back. She has only seen that fire, the determination, in one other place; a portrait of a long-dead Prince. “Won’t I?”

“Indeed. Provided you don’t cause trouble.” Matteusz nods, albeit he nods reluctantly, and lets Charlie go with her. She feels for the poor kid. She knows that sad, longing look all too well. Affection is a pain. Especially when you haven’t realised it.

The car ride to the headquarters and walk to her office is completely silent. She doesn’t see the point in small talk and apparently neither does he. It gives her some peace; according to rumours, Prince Charles never stopped talking.

“Tea?” she offers as he sits down in front of her desk. He shakes his head. Rather than sitting on her chair, she leans on top of her desk, looking down on him. She smirks when she sees him squirm.

“I suppose you know what I’ve brought you in for?”

“Actually no,” he confesses.

“I’ve heard reports of what you and your gang plan to do,” she tells him. “Dressing you up as Prince Charles, take you to London.” He presses his hands together his knuckles turn white. “No use in denying it, Charlie.”

“I won’t deny it,” he responds.

“You understand why we can’t have that.”

“In fairness, we didn’t plan on you finding out.” Quill isn’t sure if she should roll her eyes or laugh.

“It needs to end now,” she orders. “For your own sake if anything else.” He frowns, unsure if she’s sincere. Clever boy. “You do know you can’t keep it up forever? You’re barely fooling anyone right now.”

“I’m not trying to fool anyone. I just-” He stops suddenly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Want to bet?” He remains silent. “Look, the Prince is dead. You know that, I know that. The Queen Mother knows that.” Charlie opens his mouth, defiance dancing in his eyes, but closes it again, thinking the better of it. Quill knows what he’s going to ask, though, and it makes her want to laugh. “You want to know how I know he’s really gone?”

“Well, if there’s a rumour on the street that he’s alive, how do you know for certain?”

Quill takes a deep breath. She hasn’t told a soul what she’s about to tell this boy. Not even Ames.

“Because I was there,” she confesses, and he nearly falls off the chair. “My father was one of the leaders of the revolution.”

The memory spills over and fills her mind. She remembers her father strapping his pistol to his belt as she worked at the kitchen table. She remembers her mother’s eyes filling with tears. She remembers his final words before he left, ‘this is good. This is for Andrea.’

“I watched as he and his comrades stormed the palace from the safety of my bedroom. I watched that building burn and I watched every person be shot while they tried to escape. It was raining bullets. No one could have survived it.” When it was happening, she thought it would never end. The endless sound of gunfire, the blaze on the streets painting the sky red. “We were moved into the palace the night after, while they were being held. You know most people think they all died the night of the revolution, but they’re wrong. After they were captured, they were held in the palace cellar for three days before they executed them.” She shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe how quiet it was that night. My mother and I, we knew what was coming. Everyone in the country did. We sat in our room and waited. I even pressed my ear to the door to hear it. I heard them being marched to the foyer. I heard the pistols clicking. I heard the King asking what was happening. Then the shots rang out. I heard them screaming. And then…. Nothing. The world stopped breathing.”

“Sounds awful,” Charlie whispers, but she barely pays attention to him. “How old were you?”

“I was nearly finishing university,” she replies quietly. It may have been eight years since then, but she felt like she aged ten years that night. It was the last night of her girlhood. She pressed her hands to her temples, pulling herself back to reality. “So that’s how I know. I heard him die. I heard them all die.” Charlie looks like he’s going to throw up. Quill may hate the royal family and all they stood for; but that night was bloody and even she sometimes gets squeamish if she thinks about it too hard. He is whiter than her walls, clutching on to the sides of the chair as if it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“It’s just pretending,” he rasps. “That’s all. Just pretend”

“It’s just nothing,” she tells him. “History doesn’t want any of them to have survived. You pretending to be the Prince has a butterfly effect. The danger you could bring to you and your new friends is unthinkable. Not to mention to the Republic itself. Everything my father and his comrades worked for could come undone.”

“And you don’t want that?” he asks, his voice still weak. He looks like he’s been shot himself. She could give him a written warning for backtalking an officer, but she lets it slide.

“Of course not,” she replies, her voice harder than she intended. “My father did a proud task. And I’m here to keep it that way. Despite what my mother said…” She could bite her tongue. She’s held a lot of this back since that night, and he seems to be listening. “He told me not to ask. My mother always told me it was because he was ashamed. She said his guilt killed him, but I knew better. What he did, it was brutal, but it necessary.” She pretends to brush a lock of hair off her face, her hands clammy and cold.

“Would you have done it?” he asks. His voice is still small, but there’s more force behind the words now. “If you were in your father’s place, would you have shot them?”

“Yes.” It’s the answer she has to give, otherwise the uniform she wears is meaningless. Regardless, she is almost sure she would have. She is her father’s daughter. “Now go. Drop this meaningless fantasy. You get one warning, Charlie.” He doesn’t move, except for lifting his chin slightly. There’s a power in him that she can’t ignore. He’ll go over her head to keep playing out his little fantasy. Her lip curls into a smirk. “Think carefully about what this little dream of yours can bring. You’d be surprised how simple revolutions can be. You don’t want to end up on the wrong side of one.” She pushes herself off the desk, her legs stiff and tight, and walks behind it to her chair. “Now go. I’ll get someone to drive you back to the city centre.”

When he rises from the chair he rises slowly, his hands shaking, breaking slowly. He nods at her awkwardly, like someone yanked his head forward. He stumbles slowly to the door and walks out, leaving her in an empty, cold office. Quill pulls her desk drawer open and lifts out a bottle of whiskey, still sealed shut. Talking about her past, that night, her father, has been like tearing open a closed wound. Cleansing and painful all at once. She needs a drink.

She hopes for her sake, and the sake of him and his friends, that she’s done enough to put an end to their little game.

_The river flows, a new wind blows_

_And soon it will be spring_

_The leaves unfold, the King lies cold_

_A revolution is a simple thing_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading y'all.  
> Also I've decided to close each chapter with a quote from a song from the musical Anastasia that is relevant to this chapter for.... dramatic purposes, I guess?


	4. Chapter 4

It’s dark when Quill’s driver leaves Charlie back at the centre. When he gets out of the car he can just about make out the abandoned theatre that has become his new home; a good walk away, the outline of the building just visible against the dark blue sky, the dull street lamps lighting it up in a dirty orange hue. It’s also cold, air coming out of his mouth in white puffs of smoke and the hairs on his arms standing up despite his jacket, although he has been cold ever since his meeting with the Lieutenant, ever since hearing about what her father did to… Did to the former King and Queen. Hearing about it from her made it seem real. More real than any of Tanya’s teachings and quizzes and training had, more real than anything he had read in any book. Not that books had ever really been helpful; the Republic only really allows books that paint the royals in a less than pleasant light, and many gloss over what happened to them. He is the only person in Rhodia who doesn’t remember that night, whatever had happened to him took even that away from him, but Quill saying it makes him feel like he had been there. During the drive back and even now, standing in the street, he can feel the heat as the soldiers set fire to the palace, the gunshots ring in his ears, making his heart beat louder with every shot, he can see bullets breaking through the windows and tear the curtains, see the sky turning red and smoke rising and the statues toppling. All too real, too vivid.

And a voice, very faintly, tucked in the back of the horrifying picture his mind had created, begging him to come back. Come back from where, he doesn’t know, but he hears someone calling him to come back. Whoever it is, they sound scared for him.

He shakes his head, walking quickly through the street, his shoulders hunched and arms around him to preserve what little warmth he has. He has bigger problems right now; that the authorities know what they’re doing, and likely where they live. He has one chance; he can either give up the biggest clue to his past and go on as he has done for years, alive, but in the dark, or he can keep going and risk a jail sentence, along with his friends, all to find one small lead that may or may not be true. He thinks that he must be mad, because he wants to keep going, despite the risk. He wants to keep pretending to be a Prince and to slip through the borders that grow stronger each day.

He slows down when he sees someone on the street corner. He’s heard all kinds of horror stories of people being attacked in the streets of the Capitol. He’s dealt with some people coming at him before in the orphanage, he can hold his own, but it still worries him.

He prepares to plough right past the stranger, making no eye contact, until the stranger turns, and he sees it’s not a stranger at all.

“Matteusz,” he sighs in relief. “What are you doing out here?”

“You didn’t come back,” he explains. “I got worried. So, I came out here to try to wait for you. I tried to follow you, but I couldn’t remember what direction you went in.”

“You waited for me?” he asks. He’s surprised, but pleased, and for a moment he forgets all about Quill and the fact that she knows what they’re doing and the faint voice in his head asking him to come back. Matteusz smiles, stuffing his hands into his back pockets.

“Well…. Yes,” he says. “You’re one of us now. You are my friend, and friends look out for one another.” Charlie smiles as he feels his cheeks begin to turn pink and he toys with the edge of his jacket. In the orphanage, he had never had any real friends. No one was friends there; it was every person for themselves. The most he had to a friend was a boy who had picked him up after a fight and helped him get cleaned before the Matron arrived. Belonging somewhere, having people, it’s a nice feeling. A bit unfamiliar, but nice. “So, the officer, what did she want? Who was she?”

“Oh, her,” Charlie sighs, coming back to the issue at hand. He and Matteusz begin walking through the streets, sticking to the smaller streets and staying close to buildings rather than taking their chances on the main roads, and he tells him what happened. “Her name is Quill. Someone must have reported us because she knows what we’re doing. She must know where we live if she found us, and she said that she’s giving us one chance to call it off.”

“We’ll have to move soon,” Matteusz says.

“We’re not giving up though, are we?” Charlie asks. Matteusz stops, turning Charlie to look at him properly. “We’re still going, aren’t we?”

“She didn’t put you off?” Matteusz asks. He’s not joking, not mocking. He’s confused. Charlie shakes his head. Matteusz smiles slightly, huffing a laugh.

“You’re slightly crazy,” he says. “But brave. Come on, let’s go back and we can try to think of something. Maybe if they do not catch us, they will think we stopped.”

“Stopped what?” A voice behind them makes them both freeze. The voice is slurred and slow and obviously belongs to a drunkard. No one who can send them to jail, but someone who can get in a scrap with them, and with their need for a low profile, that’s the last thing they need. “I’d recognise that voice anywhere, Andrzjewski.”

Matteusz mutters a curse under his breath and they turn to face their new friend. It’s a boy not much older than them, dark hair under a blue cap and wearing a tattered grey coat. He’s accompanied by a young girl who is swaying too much for it to be safe and another boy who is eyeing up Charlie.

“Chris,” Matteusz greets flatly. “Reagan, Adam. I trust you are well.”

“Oh, why so formal, Matteusz?” the ringleader, Chris, says, stumbling closer. Without even looking at him, Matteusz reaches out and pushes Charlie behind him. “Don’t you miss your old partners in crime?”

“Not particularly,” he grumbles, keeping his jaw set. His face may be calm, but the tension in his arms and the glint in his eyes say that he is ready for a fight if it comes to that.

“Looks like he’s got himself a new boyfriend instead,” the girl, Reagan, points out, by the way Chris looks at Charlie, he’s likely only just noticed that he’s there. He licks his upper lip; his eyes flash and it makes Charlie’s skin crawl.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Matteusz corrects.

“Don’t tell me, it’s Prince Charles himself,” the last one, Adam, declares. All three of them move closer. Charlie has always been claustrophobic, and this isn’t helping; his hands start shaking and it’s not from the cold. One hand wraps around Matteusz’s arm and holds on tightly, the other comes to rest on his shoulder, like Matteusz is his very own human shield. “I bet he has you bowing like a regular little prince.”

“You going to London, your Royal Highness?” Reagan asks, and she gives him a bow. Or, he assumes it’s meant to be a bow, but it looks more like she simply fell over and she staggers around them.

“Let’s go Matteusz, I don’t like these people,” Charlie whispers, but before either one can move, he is grabbed by the wrist and turned around violently to come face-to-face with Reagan. The stench of vodka on her breath makes his stomach turn, but she has him in an iron grip.

“Too good for us mere peasants, your Highness?” Adam laughs.

“You know if you don’t want him Matteusz, I’ll take him off your hands for you!” Reagan cackles, pulling Charlie harshly, making him collide with her, and wrapping her arms around him. “Want to dance, pretty boy?”

“Not really,” Charlie grumbles, and he punches Reagan square in the jaw. She topples backwards, caught off guard; shock and alcohol are not friends, and he takes the opportunity to kick her in the stomach. When he turns around, Chris is already advancing on him, Adam holding a scared-looking Matteusz by the shirt, but Charlie uses his smaller size to his advantage and lands a punch right in his gut, a kick in his groin, and another punch on his chin and it sends him reeling. Adam is much smaller than Chris, but he still steps up to fight him. Charlie nearly knocks him over with one kick. One more kick and Adam is on the ground. He gets up, still doubled over and stumbles over to Chris and Reagan. “You want some more?” Reagan is the first to leave, limping off into the night, followed closely by Adam. Chris stares him down, despite the blood trickling from his nose.

“You keep funny company now, Matteusz,” he says. When Charlie takes another step forward, Chris flinches and runs after his companions.

“Next time, I won’t go so easy!” Charlie calls after him. When he turns, Matteusz is standing behind him, half laughing.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asks.

“You don’t grow up in an orphanage without learning to take care of yourself,” he replies. “People try to steal your food or pick fights to see who gets the thickest blanket.”

“You had it rough,” Matteusz says. Charlie nods, curling his fingers in his jacket. He should have been grateful that they took him in when he had nowhere else to go, but that place was far from perfect. Scarce food and strict matrons and cold nights with thin blankets.

“I guess. I’d have given anything to grow up like you did,” he says, and Matteusz shakes his head.

“Wasn’t so easy.” He sits himself on a crate and invites Charlie to sit next to him. “My mother passed away when I was little. I don’t remember a lot of her. Then my father, the night of the revolution, he went out and fought on the King’s side, trying to secure the palace. When I woke up, he was in a body bag on my grandmother’s doorstep.”

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said, kicking himself. “That must have been awful.”

“It’s okay. Between you and me, my father was not the best of men. But by the time I was ten, I was on my own.”

“Who raised you, then?”

“Sometimes my older cousins would take me in for a night,” he says with a small smile on his face. “But they had their own families to take care of. So, I mostly raised myself.” Matteusz shakes his head. “You do not want to hear the story.”

“I think I do,” Charlie corrects. Matteusz’s cheeks turned pink and he bit his lip, but he was smiling.

“I grew up in the gutters and the streets of the Capitol,” he confesses, looking at his intertwined fingers on his lap. “I learned to get very good at getting by on my own.” Charlie nudged him with his elbow, eyes wide with interest, encouraging him to go on. “I wasn’t perfect. I tried to be good, to do the right thing, but got into scrapes to get blankets, stole bread. You learn to use your head here. In here, street rats like me are either clever or they die. My father used to say there are two kinds of people in the world; those who survive and those who don’t. I decided when I was still a child I wanted to be in the first category.” He also learned to take chances on the streets, and looking at Charlie, he decides to take another one. He stands up and offers his hand.

“What’s this about?” he asks, cautiously taking Matteusz’s hand. Matteusz smiles and begins running with him, leading him down streets, past the theatre, down towards an unfamiliar part of the city, with tall apartment blocks that used to be banks and towering concrete hospitals and schools that look vaguely like Charlie’s old home at the orphanage and a river running through. Matteusz pulls him to the side of a tower block, where a slightly rusted ladder awaits them, both more than a bit out of breath. “You called me crazy?”

“Would you trust me? I’ve done this a thousand times,” he assures him. As if to prove him point, Matteusz hops on and climbs a few rungs with ease, leaving just enough room for Charlie. He looks down at him and raises an eyebrow. Charlie rolls his eyes but, despite his beating heart and shaking fingers and shortness of breath, he climbs too. He moves quickly, not because he enjoys it, but because he figures that the sooner he gets up there he can get down.

“Is there a reason you brought me up here?” he asks when he reaches the top, his voice shaking. Matteusz takes his hand and brings him close to the edge of the roof. If there wasn’t a small iron fence as high as Charlie’s waist, he’d fall without a doubt. He’s worried that he could be in danger of that anyway. He doesn’t dare look over the edge.

“Because this is my favourite part of the whole city. My cousin used to live here, and I came here for a while after I lost my father. And my cousin took me up here when I was sad,” he replies. “Look.”

Charlie manages to pull his eyes away from Matteusz’s face, and when he does the view takes his breath away. From up here, he doesn’t feel so small. He sees the sprawling landscape, the river snaking its way into the sea, a blue line in the distance. The buildings seem to get smaller the further out they go. He can even see the police headquarters sitting in the distance, only two or three lights on in the whole great building.

“I can see the whole city,” he whispers.

“That’s why I love it,” he says. “Up here you can see the spires of the old chapels, all the way down to the piers.” He points out the sights, and Charlie listens attentively, listening to Matteusz describe his home. He feels like he could fly, up here on the roof. Then Matteusz takes his hand, a small gesture, something he didn’t even seem to think about, and then he feels that he might just fly. It’s safe and thrilling and scary all at once. “See down there? That quay?” He points out, and Charlie nods. “I’d have been down there, selling souvenirs I stole from wealthy passers-by or some shops. There’s probably another little boy down there, learning the same tricks, doing the same things now.” When Charlie looks up at him, he sees the half smile on his face, the sadness in his eyes, and he grips his hand a little tighter. “This city is the only place I’ve ever known. Every small, dark corner, from the old palaces down to the alleyways. I hate it, but at the same time… I guess something in me loves it. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” he replies. He gets brave and rests his head on Matteusz’s shoulder, taking in the view. “Do you think you’ll miss it?”

“I know I will,” he says. “But I have to go. If there’s one thing I learned from my father, it’s to look ahead. There’s nothing here to hold me anymore.” He shrugs and turns to look at Charlie. “Maybe I’ll find something to hold me in London.”

“Maybe,” he whispers, and turns to look out at the city again. “So, this is your Capitol?”

“My Capitol,” he replies. “So, you see, we aren’t so different after all. You are the orphan and I am the street rat. And people can say what they want about Rhodia, but tonight… We have quite the view.”

“We probably won’t find one like that in London,” he whispers. Matteusz shakes his head and wraps his arm around Charlie.

They come down from the roof a few minutes later, when they see police beginning to make their night rounds. One run-in with the authorities is enough for one night. They walk home side by side, chatting about tiny, trivial things that turn into more. They start talking about their childhood’s; Matteusz learns about how Charlie was the one of oldest kids in the orphanage and how he used to look out for younger kids and how Matrons ranged from mildly disliking him to outright hating him. Charlie learns about Matteusz’s cousins, how they took turns taking him in for a few nights at a time, how he’d work small jobs on the street to earn a living, and how he was often tasked with looking after his cousin’s children despite being a child himself.

“My cousin Jakub lives in that tower block I showed you,” he says. “He used to take me up there, just me and him, it felt like I could see the whole country.”

“You weren’t scared?” Charlie asks, remembering the pit in his stomach that formed when he saw the scale of the building Matteusz got him to climb.

“I knew Jakub would protect me,” he says. “Sometimes he’d put me on his shoulders, and I could see absolutely everything. He’d tell me ‘bet you can see all the way to Ireland up there, Matti’.”

“Matti?” Charlie asks, chuckling.

“Its what he called me. It’s what all my family call me,” he says, shrugging. He pauses for a moment, and instead of continuing home, he takes Charlie by the arm and pulls him aside. “Here, I want to show you something.”

“What is it?”

“Close your eyes.” Charlie raises an eyebrow. He likes Matteusz, he very nearly trusts him, but that doesn’t mean he is going to go along with anything he says, especially one as strange as this.

“Is this the part where you abandon me in the middle of a street to be eaten by wolves?” he asks.

“I would never,” he says. “Would you just trust me?” Charlie takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. His body tingles, a knot beginning to form in his stomach for the second time that night, but he keeps them closed. “Hold out your hand.” He does so, despite his hand shaking. Memories of cruel tricks from other boys begin to reappear in his mind, and he tenses just out of reflex. He feels something heavy and warm being gently placed in the palm of his hand. “Okay, open your eyes.”

When he looks, he sees a small, circular box in the palm of his hand. It was deep vibrant green, the bottom lined with gold, as was the lid, which was also decorated with a silver star. When he ran his finger along the side, it was completely smooth, until the bumped into some gold lettering; thin, looping letters spelled out ‘Together in London’ on the side, as well as a silver circle. When he held it close, he could see small gems sparkling in the moonlight, like stars had been taken out of the night sky.

“You’ve worked hard,” Matteusz says. “I thought you’d earned it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Charlie whispers. “A music box?”

“Yes,” Matteusz says. “Unfortunately, it’s broken. We’ve all tried, we cannot get it open. It belonged to the Prince himself.” Matteusz winces slightly, his smile faltering.

Charlie frowns slightly, and his hand drifts to the circle at the side.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” he says softly. He doesn’t even know if Matteusz hears him. His finger touches the circle and moves it clockwise with a delicate touch. He keeps turning it, counting under his breath _… Nine, ten, eleven, twelve… thirteen_. He holds his breath as he moves his hand and lifts the lid, revealing a small boy with blond hair in a bright blue suit dancing with an older lady with grey curls and a white dress. Paint has been chipped away over the years, leaving small pink spots on the figures. A melody plays, soft and gentle and light. And slightly familiar.

“How did you do that?” Matteusz asks.

“I don’t know,” Charlie confesses. “I just… knew.” He keeps watching the boy and woman as they spin in time with the music.

“Charlie? Charlie are you okay?” Matteusz asks, but voice is distant, fading away the most he listens to the music until he’s just noise in the background, overshadowed by the delicate and hauntingly familiar music playing from the box in his hands as the figures spin slowly in a circle.

Images begin to unfurl in Charlie’s mind, blocking out the real world, spreading over them, covering up the dark streets with their rundown buildings and Matteusz with his concerned eyes. Strange, fantastical, wonderful images of bears dancing, and wings painted onto something he can’t quite make out, bright red roses being held by someone who wears white gloves, a long corridor with a white carpet and gold painted walls that leads to nowhere. He can almost feel himself running down the corridor, feel the exhilaration of his bare feet racing on the thick carpet. Things he can almost remember, blurry and disjointed in his mind, just out of reach.

And a song someone sings to him.

He remembers feeling someone hold him, feeling safe and warm and secure in their embrace, watching snow fall outside, heavier and heavier, the frost turning the window silver. He sees faceless figures passing by, half there, blurred around the edges and their colours are faded. They move quickly, their feet don’t seem to touch the ground as they whirl past him. He tries to reach out and touch, but it seems the more he tries, the further away they go.

The images fade away, turning to grey wispy shadows, then disappearing altogether, and darkness is all he can see, all he can feel. He can’t even feel his own body. He is weightless, standing there in the darkness, his mind turns completely blank.

Then there’s light, so much light it nearly blinds him, shining from above in crystalline chandeliers. He feels like he’s breathing for the first time in a long time. Slowly, a room starts to form around him; massive, so big it seems to go one for miles, growing and spreading out as far as it can, with a white floor and towering gold walls that don’t seem to end, with large French doors with pristine white paint leading out to a sprawling garden. Inside, the ballroom begins to fill with guests; figures fade into view, men in blue and black and red suits with gold trim waltz with women in sheer, sleeveless gowns in greens and pinks and light blues, their hair pinned up in elegant buns, their gold and silver pins sparkling under the lights.

There’s something comforting about the scene; his head says he’s never been here, but his heart knows this place like the back of his hand.

He cannot remember moving, but he finds himself in the middle of the dance floor, gowns brushing against his hand, a light whisper of a touch. People bow to him, smiling, women curtsey so deeply they nearly hit the floor, and he bows back, not quite sure why.

His old clothes transform; what he was wearing before replaced by a soft white shirt and light blue jacket, silver lining the edges, and light blue trousers. A woman comes up to him, smiling giddily, and drapes a red sash over him, running behind him to pull it into place, giggling as she does so. Another woman comes towards him, her cheeks pink and eyes bright, carrying a gold circle embezzled with tiny diamonds; a crown.

She places it on his head and he feels… whole. At least as whole as he can remember feeling. The woman curtsies and giggles before taking his hands in her gloved ones. They feel light against his skin, so light they may not even be there. She whirls him around the dancefloor, his body falling into a rhythm he never even knew he could find.

He is passed from person to person in single, fluid motions, flying in circles over the golden floor. Passing faceless people, barely getting a glimpse at them before he’s passed to someone else. It’s exhilarating and thrilling, and slowly becoming more familiar. Far away, long ago, this was home, this was his life, his heart tells him.

He spins again, slower this time, into another woman’s arms. This time he can see her face. She’s tall, but blonde like him, she has his chin and he can see his eyes in hers. Her dress isn’t like the rest, it’s more grand, dark blue, the skirt sparkles with hundreds of diamonds and trails behind her, and she wears a silver tiara on her curled hair. Her hand slips into his, her thumb stroking the back of his hand, and she smiles, dimples forming in her cheeks. She spins him slowly, a hand caressing his face so gently he can barely feel it. There’s a sadness sin her eyes despite her smile.

All too soon, the image starts to fade, like a dying ember. He tightens his grip, desperate to hold on. The woman pulls him close and kisses his head and he feels safe and scared and sad all at the same time. His hand slips through her as she walks away, a word he sticks at the back of his throat, but he doesn’t know what it is. His knees fail him, and he falls to the floor, still looking up at her as she continues to fade away, her hand still reaching out to him.

In the background, so quiet he can barely hear it, is the song again. A song someone used to sing to him on cold nights when he couldn’t sleep.

                                                                                                                *****

“Charlie!” Matteusz says, louder than Charlie has ever heard him. He jumps, the cold hair cutting his skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

His heart is racing, he struggles to catch his breath. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling nothing on his head. He feels like he’s going to throw up or start screaming and he clings to Matteusz like an anchor.

“Are you okay?” Matteusz asks.

“Fine,” Charlie lies as Matteusz helps him to his feet. Everything he saw, thought he saw, fades from his mind too quickly, blowing away like smoke. “What-what happened?”

“I don’t know,” he answers. “You started looking at the music box and… It’s like you were in some sort of trance. You just kept look at it, and then you fell, you just hit the ground.”

“Oh.” Charlie looks at the music box, still open, the music over and the boy and woman standing still, waiting to be wound up again. He closes the lid slowly, listening to it click into place, and hands it over to Matteusz with shaking hands and shallow breaths. “Thank you. For showing me.” Matteusz manages a small smile, but it doesn’t hide the concern on his face, and puts the box back in his coat pocket. “We should go. They’ll be wondering where we are.” He turns to go, but he’s stopped by Matteusz grabbing his arm and turning him to face him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Matteusz hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and cups Charlie’s face. For a mad, fleeting moment, Charlie wonders if he’s going to kiss him now. But he just wipes his cheek with his thumb, and its then Charlie realises the prickling feeling in his eyes, the warm sensation running down his cheeks.

“Because you’re crying. Why?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, and it’s the truth.

_Far away, long ago_

_Glowing dim as an ember_

_Things my heart used to know_

_Things it yearns to remember_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once Upon A December section? Anastasia AU is a go people!!!!  
> Anywas, if you liked, please leave a comment x


	5. Chapter 5

Matteusz and Charlie hurry back to the theatre in silence. Well, Matteusz hurries, Charlie is slower, wading and stumbling along the streets, almost not seeing where he’s going, just blindly following Matteusz. Matteusz takes his wrist gently, not to hurt him, but to give him something to ground him, bring him back from whatever world he’s stuck in, and Charlie manages a smile. They walk in that way, Matteusz pulling Charlie along, and his hand slowly slides down Charlie’s wrist, and his cold, tight fist slowly opens to allow Matteusz to slip his fingers between his and press their palms together.

He’s stopped crying now, his cheeks dry, his lashes only look spiked if you stand close enough. His eyes have a dazed, confused look about them, but other than that he looks completely ordinary. If Matteusz hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have believed he had been crying.

The minute he had opened that music box, Matteusz saw Charlie slip away. He had tried calling out to him, tapping his cheek, but nothing worked. Charlie had kept his eyes fixed on the figurines inside the music box, swaying slightly. All Matteusz could do was watch. He bowed every now and then, smiling more brightly than Matteusz had ever seen. He looked so happy, and so beautiful, that Matteusz thought he’d have been content to remain there watching him. He had been glad they were alone; both so that no one would see Charlie acting so strangely and so that he could have that image of his smile all to himself.

Then he slowed down, his smile faltering, and the tears began to form in his eyes and run down his cheeks. When he fell to his knees, Matteusz knew he had to snap him out of it.

He hadn’t said anything since then, and it’s taken him a while to stop shaking. Now he just looks empty. Hopeless. A sadness he can’t hide behind a fake smile and a joke. Matteusz wants to ask but knows better; Charlie is in no mood to talk, at least not about…. Whatever had just happened to him.

“How soon do you think we can leave?” he asks, taking Matteusz by surprise. Charlie manages a shaky, small smile, toying with a thread on his coat. “They’re cancelling trains left and right.” Matteusz knows this all too well; every day he hears of the regime closing a new border, emptying out trains of people who didn’t have right papers. People desperately seeking a better life. Mostly aristocrats and philosophers that the regime wants rid of for good, but some are poor families and street rats like him who can’t survive in a world that isn’t built for them. No matter how much the regime claims it is.

“Soon, I think,” he says, not knowing what else to say. Charlie’s wide hope-filled eyes are too much for him; he can’t face him with that face and tell him that he doesn’t know if he can get them all out before they close every border. Getting papers is difficult, even if it’s your cousin who’s getting them as a last favour for you, and he’s trying to get five. If Charlie notices he’s bluffing, he doesn’t say. He simply holds Matteusz’s hand a little lighter and pulls his jacket closer around him.

Inside the theatre, it’s not much warmer than it is outside. They can’t turn on the heating in case someone notices, and also because it’s not like any of them know how to work it. April is sitting on the edge of the stage, banging her feet together, either to warm her up or ease her boredom, while Tanya lies on her back with Dash-the name she affectionately gave the dog after seeing him running around the place-perched on her stomach, her hand absentmindedly running through his fur, and Ram nowhere to be seen.

When they come in, April is the first to notice, jumping off the stage and flinging her arms around both of them, squeezing them both tightly.

“What happened?” she asks frantically. “We saw you go off with some officer and then Matteusz said he was going to wait for you and then we don’t see either of you for over an hour!”

“Sorry, April,” Charlie begins.

“It was my fault,” Matteusz cuts in. “We, um, we got a bit side-tracked.” April raises her eyebrows. “Not like that! We ran into some people I knew once, and then I showed Charlie the city. He’s never seen it properly.” He tried not to smile at the thought of him and Charlie standing on that roof together, his head on Matteusz’s shoulder, seeing the whole city from above, getting to tell Charlie everything about how he grew up and have him listen.

“Okay….” April says, beginning to grin. Matteusz shakes his head at her, hoping she’ll take the hint at how innocent their evening was.

“The officer,” Tanya says, coming over with Dash in her hands. “What did she want?” Dash jumps out of Tanya’s arms and rubs against Charlie’s legs by way of greeting. While he may officially be Tanya’s dog, he clearly hasn’t forgotten the boy who brought him to the Capitol in the first place. According to Charlie, Dash was the one who pushed him towards the Capitol in the first place, and their bond is almost unbreakable as Dash’s with Tanya.

“She knows. Someone went and told her everything. That we plan to cross the border, get to London, talk to the Queen Mother, everything,” Charlie babbles. “She says, she says that we have one chance to stop or she’ll….”

“She’ll what?” Tanya asks, lifting Dash and holding him close to her chest.

“She never specified,” he whispers. “But it will likely not be pleasant.” Tanya nods and chews her lip, the way she normally does when she’s thinking.

“Then we need to move fast. Matteusz, how are those papers coming along?”

“It’s a slow process,” he admits, not looking at Charlie. “Last I checked my cousin had two of them ready to go. He should have more done by now, but me hanging around there makes me look suspicious.” And endangers his cousin. Trying to get illegal travel documents could land him in prison, but trying to get them for them now that they’re under the microscope of the secret police? It doesn’t bare thinking about. “And it means nothing if we cannot get tickets.”

Ram comes through the doors just then, his head low, against the cold or out of sadness, they can’t tell. He can’t look any of them in the eye and it makes Matteusz’s gut churn.

“What is it?” April asks when he comes over to them, running her hand up and down his arm. Matteusz isn’t sure he’s ever seen Ram this upset. All the time he’s known him he was either false cocky swagger or dry, sarcastic anger. Here, he just looks defeated.

“They closed another train station,” he says. “That was the last one left except Gallifreyan…” The words hit Matteusz like a bullet square in the chest. April looks like she’s about to puke, and Tanya simply falls to the floor, clutching her knees to her chest.

“What’s wrong with that one?” Charlie asks. He looks at each of them in turn and none of them have the heart to tell him that the one train left is the one they can’t take.

“That station’s way too expensive,” Ram explains, collapsing into a chair. “The trains that go from there take aristocrats and intellectuals. Everyone that the government wants rid of. It’s ridiculously expensive specifically so none of us ordinary citizens can leave.”

“We… we have to,” he says. “How much do we have? You all said you had stuff saved up, April you said you’ve done work this whole time-”

“Even with all that there’s not enough,” Tanya says. “I’m sorry but it’s over.” She lifts Dash and runs away, through the stage door and they hear her footsteps above them, all the way up in the upper galleries. There’s only one reason Tanya would go up there on her own; she doesn’t want them to see her crying.

April and Ram look at each other and slip away to a corner together. In the shadows and darkness, Matteusz can just about see them clasp hands and April put her head in his lap.

And he’s left alone with Charlie, who isn’t even trying to hold back his tears.

“I’m sorry,” Matteusz whispers. “I thought that I could get the exit papers before they cancelled all the trains. I thought I could get us out.”

“We could try to-”

“There’s no point,” he explains. “By the time we got the money together, they’d have shut down that station. I’m so sorry but it’s over.”

“I trusted you,” Charlie says, sounding angry and heartbroken. For a fleeting moment, Matteusz is angry too. He’s the one who’s been working his ass off, and frankly it’s not his fault the government decided that none of its citizens can leave without their permission.

“That is not fair,” he tells him. “I said I was sorry.” He storms past him and leans on the seats, clutching them until it hurts, needing the release.

“But do I trust you enough?” Charlie asks, barely audible. He knows he’s not asking him. He feels Charlie tapping on his shoulder and turns to face him, his eyes unreadable and his hand in his pocket. “Now you close your eyes.”

“What for?” he asks, half laughing. Charlie smiles shakily.

“Trust me?” he asks, and Matteusz decides that he does. So, he closes his hand. “Hold out your hand.” All he hears is Charlie’s shaky breathing until he feels him place something in his hand. “Okay open them.”

Matteusz’s jaw hits the floor. He’s sure he’s dreaming or hallucinating or something because there is no way Charlie just placed a diamond in his hand. It’s tiny, smaller than a pebble, and glitters when it catches the light. He looks up from the stone to a hesitant Charlie and back to the stone.

“The nurse in the hospital found it sewn into my shirt,” he explains. “And she gave it to the Matron when I went to the orphanage. It’s a miracle they didn’t sell it.” Charlie’s eyes never leave the stone in Matteusz’s hand. “She kept it from me until they night before I left. She sat me down and told me about how I had had it one me. She told me never to tell anyone about it until I was absolutely sure I had to. I had to know it was someone I can trust.”

“And that’s me?” he asks, half joking. Charlie gives a quick nod. Matteusz looks over at April and Ram, who are too far away and wrapped up in each other to hear them. “You’ve had this all the time and you said nothing?”

“It’s all I have,” he replies. “Without it, I’m nothing.”

“Then why give it to me now?”

“Because if it can get me home… If it can get me to where I should be then it has to be for something, right?” he asks. Matteusz isn’t sure if he is looking for an answer. He’s also not sure to hug him or roll his eyes at him for holding onto the diamond the whole time he’s been with him.

He opts to hug him tightly. Charlie takes a moment before he responds and Matteusz wonders how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this. He laughs slightly breathlessly.

“Guys, I think we need to leave,” Tanya says, appearing on the stage. “We can’t stay here, not if they know what we’re going. They’ll send in soldiers to raid the palace soon enough…” As she keeps going, Matteusz presses a finger to his lips at Charlie before reaching up and holding diamond above Charlie’s head, making sure it got some of the light. “We should take the money we have and go to the shopping district, if we all got jobs there we’d-mother Mary!” Tanya’s eyes at least double in size when she sees the stone. Her surprise brings Ram and April over; April stops in her tracks at the sight and Ram nearly trips over her.

“Where did that come from?” Ram asks, his voice a whole octave higher.

“Would you believe he’s had it the whole time?” Matteusz laughs.

“I didn’t trust any of you with it!” Charlie adds.

“I don’t blame you,” Tanya says, but she’s smiling.

“I could hug you,” Ram says.

“I will hug you!” April exclaims and she does so. She turns to Matteusz. “I know a place to fence it, a good one. I know the owner, they won’t con me. I can fence the diamond.” Matteusz nods and hands it over to her. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Do you mind if I come with you?” Charlie asks. “It’s the last thing I have and I….” He doesn’t need to finish.

“Of course,” she says, taking his wrist. “Come on, we need to go now to beat the crowds.” She can and Charlie bound out, looking more like two friends racing home and less like two convicts fencing a diamond.

“Matteusz, how are the exit papers?” Tanya asks.

“I’ll go and see my cousin now,” he says. “Hopefully they’re done soon.” For the first time in longer than he can care to admit, Matteusz feels like this plan might just work.

“We take the train from Rhodia to Paris, and then we can get a boat Calais to Dover. Then we go to London from there,” Tanya explains. “From what I hear, it’s a pretty short train ride. Compared to the train from Rhodia to Paris anyway.”

“Tans, how would you have funded this if he didn’t have that diamond?” Ram asks.

“No idea, but thank god he did,” she sighs, breathlessly excited. Matteusz can feel it; it’s real. No more dreaming of what it will be like when they finally cross the border. A few weeks at most and a train journey and they will be out. Free. In London. Where he can sleep in a hotel and take a shower in a real bathroom.

                                                                                                *****

Just over two weeks later, the five stand on the platform in the Gallifreyan station. It’s not what Charlie pictured when Ram said it’s reserved for aristocrats. What he imagined was sparkling marble floors and butlers carrying suitcases around while ladies strolled around in fur coats and men in tight black suits and overcoats and elegant looking steam trains pulling into the platform. What he saw instead was stained red walls and a grey stone floor. Women still wore fur coats, but they were matted and dull and they shuffled around with fearful eyes and a tight grip on their children and luggage, like either one could be snatched from her at any moment.

Charlie stands with April, Tanya and Ram in the middle of the platform, trying not to look lost. He notices Ram’s tight grip on Tanya’ shoulder, eyeing up every man who passes them. It also doesn’t escape his notice how much they stand out; the aristocrats’ clothes might look worn out and sad, but they are still significantly better quality than what the four of them have on.

He spots Matteusz pushing his way through the crowd, he’s not difficult to spot in any case. He elbows his way through the sea of people; the majority don’t put up a fight, they’re too preoccupied in their own business to notice him. He catches up to them and begins handing out pieces of paper with the stamp of the Republic in the upper left hand corner.

“It’s a special train,” he explains. “We’ll be travelling as ‘members’ of the National Rhodian Ballet Troupe. Apparently they’ve taken London by storm.” Matteusz wears his feelings on his sleeve and Charlie can see how much this whole part of their escape upsets him. He remembers how he said that he tried to stay on the right side but survival made it harder. He wants to take him aside and tell him that none of this makes him a bad person.

“Thanks,” is what he says instead, studying the page.

A man passes his field of vision; small and dark haired with soft cheeks and a young face hidden behind a dark red scarf. There’s something about the way he moves and it’s nothing like Charlie has ever seen; he moves like he’s in his own house party, and not the tacky house parties that families held in the houses down from the orphanage. He looks like a character from a storybook, regal and elegant and proud. He could easily imagine him striding across what used to be the grand gardens of the palace.

“That’s Count Ianto Jones,” April whispers.

“A philosopher and an aristocrat,” Ram continues. “A dead man either way. No wonder he wants out.”

Count Jones turns and takes in his surroundings, his eyes passing the group without thought before he suddenly tenses and turns back to them. Charlie panics and looks back at his paper, forcing his shoulders to drop and look relaxed.

He hears tentative footsteps coming towards him and despite his better judgement, looks up to see Count Jones’ mouth half open, his eyes wide, just in front of him. In the cold of the station, he sees his breath coming out slowly, his mouth forming words no one can hear.

Then he drops to his knee and grabs Charlie’s hand. Before Charlie can even think to try to protest, he kisses the back of it and looks up at him with eyes half horrified and half amazed.

“God bless you,” he whispers reverently, like he’s praying.

Charlie freezes. He should ask what he means. Instead he watches as reality seems to settle on the Count as he stands and backs away from him. His eyes never leave him and even when he disappears around the corner, he can still feel his eyes on the back of his neck, hear his words in his mind.

None of his friends even have the time to ask what just happened before an announcement comes over the PA system, echoing off the walls.

“Paris on platform three,” a thin voice announces. “Paris via Zürich on platform three.”

“That’s us,” Tanya says. “We should go.”

All four of them nod, but not one of them move. They take another look at their homeland for the last time and it just now hits Charlie that this is real. That he’s never actually coming back. It hasn’t been pleasant in the slightest; nine years of blank memories and eight years of uncertainty, cruelty and coldness. And yet he feels like he’s betraying his country by leaving it behind. He can’t remember, but he knows it wasn’t always like this.

“How can I desert you?” someone sings, and when he turns to find who, he sees it’s Count Jones. “How to tell you why? Coachmen hold the horses, stay I pray you.” He doesn’t recognise the song at all, but he can guess that it’s from before the revolution. One of the many works of music the regime has banned. It’s slow and sad and melancholic, yet oddly beautiful. “Let me have a moment, let me say goodbye.”

“How to break the tie? We have shed our tears and shed our sorrows,” he continues as people begin singing with him. He’s surprised to see that his friends sing too, tears shining in their eyes. And he’s the only one who can’t sing because he doesn’t remember this song. “Let me have a moment, let me say goodbye. Harsh and sweet and bitter to leave it all. I’ll bless my homeland till I die.”

“I’ll bless my homeland,” Charlie sings under his breath in the same tune as he turns to board the train. “Til I die.”

                                                                                                                *****

Their carriage is packed to full, which isn’t surprising, but it’s still uncomfortable. They push their way through the crowds of people, their backs already beginning to sting with sweat, until they find enough seats so all of them can sit together. The baggage car was already full so they take their have their bulging rucksacks with them, apologizing as they hit people on the head while they pass before collapsing into seats near the front. Matteusz lets Charlie have the window seat and finds himself wedged between him and Tanya, and then just realises one of the terrible disadvantages of being so tall. Dash whines on Tanya’s lap and jumps across all of them, pressing his paws against the window.

“With all that diamond money you couldn’t pay for first class?” Ram sighs.

“There is no more first class,” Matteusz reminds him, rubbing his temple. “Everyone is equal now.”

“You don’t need to sound so damn happy about it,” he sighs.

“It’s just a 10 hour trip,” Tanya sighs. “And that is plenty of time to discuss what we do when we get to London.”

“You mean we can’t just go to the Queen Mother?” Charlie asks.

“Just stroll up to one of the richest and most hunted women in the country and say, ‘Oh hello, we have your not-dead grandson’?” Tanya asks, half laughing. “No, no. No one gets to the Queen without going to her lady in waiting, Lady Clara Oswald. Anyone and everyone who wants to see the Queen Mother goes to her first.”

“So how do we get to her?” April asks, pulling her hair into a ponytail. Tanya winces, looking at each of them sheepishly.

“I haven’t worked that bit out yet,” she confesses. “Frankly, I thought something would come to me at some point.” She frowns when Ram rolls his eyes and Matteusz hopes he won’t have to break up a fight. They can already be thrown off at any moment, they don’t need any extra attention. “It’s not like I didn’t do my homework.” She looks up before pulling them all into a sort of huddle. “She and other Rhodians frequent the Coal Hill Club in London. I say we intercept her there and ask for a meeting with the Queen.”

“And if she says no?” Charlie asks. Tanya looks up and smirks.

“That’s where you come in,” she says. “Just stand there and look sad. And regal, don’t forget regal.”

“Of course,” he sighs. “I need a minute.” He gets up, handing Dash over to Tanya, and walks up the now-settled carriage.

“Is he okay?” April asks, looking at Matteusz.

“He’s fine,” he says. “Probably. Maybe.”

                                                                                                *****

Charlie hoped there would be space to breathe at some point, but the carriage seems to get smaller and smaller as he went through it. He could not panic now. His hands shake, his heart thunders in his chest, his breath starts getting rapid.

Royal prince? More like royal mess.

He finds one place with less people, near the end of the carriage. It isn’t ideal, but he can press himself into a corner for a moment and block everyone else out, focus on getting his breathing down and his smile up and most importantly, banish all thoughts of why exactly he agreed to this in the first place.

He doesn’t know how much time passes when he opens his eyes, but he knows they’re still in Rhodia, somewhere out in the country, judging by the fields and trees with brown leaves. He wants to press his hand against the glass, but he can’t, not from where he stands in the aisle, so he settles for looking.

He’d be mad to back out now. Other than the fact he physically cannot leave, this is his one chance to get to London and find… Whatever it is he’s been looking for this whole time. If he is Charles, then he finds his family. And if he isn’t then… Well, he can improvise when he gets to that point. It’s what Tanya’s doing and she seems to be doing pretty well.

So he plasters on a false smile, pretends his heart isn’t about to give out and heads back to his friends.

                                                                                                                *****

“Hi,” Matteusz greets when Charlie reaches them again and awkwardly shuffles past to get to his seat. Dash barks and jumps back onto his lap.

“Hi,” he replies. He lifts Dash into the air and rubs his nose against his. “And hello to you too.”

“Is everything okay?” he asks, lowering his voice. April has her eyes shut and her head on Ram’s shoulder, Tanya has her head in a book and Ram’s face is covered with his coat. Just the two of them it seems. Three, counting Dash.

“Fine,” he sighs. “I’m just not good in tight spaces.” Up close, Matteusz can see the hint of fear in his eyes which is slowly working it way up to panic. Matteusz reaches out to touches his knee, stroking gently.

“It’ll be fine,” he assures him. “We’ve only got nine and a half hours left.”

“Is that all?” he asks. Their gazes turn to the window, watching as fields and trees and the occasional house pass. “What was that song you were all singing at the station?”

“S _tay I Pray You_ ,” he answers. “Back… before the Revolution, when the royals were still in charge, it was sung when people were leaving the country. Wishing them safe travels.” Matteusz had never sang it before today, he’s never left Rhodia before, never had the need to, but they still taught it in school. Kids used to sing it as a joke when friends left their houses.

Charlie only nods.

“Harsh and sweet and bitter to leave it all,” he says quietly. “They got that part right.” Matteusz keeps looking out the window, thinking about everything that happened since he arrived in Rhodia, the good and the bad. The harsh and the sweet. He should be overjoyed and yet… He’s not. Not completely.

They’re made to turn around by the sound of the carriage door opening on the other side. April squirms into wakefulness when Ram, discarding his coat, shakes her. Matteusz can see over other passengers, the red caps of the police, and looks at Tanya with wide eyes and a pit in his stomach, immediately thinking that they’re done for.

“Papers!” the solider orders and they all scrabbles to get theirs out. His hands shake as he pulls theirs out of his coat and hand them out, reading the false information on it. His cousin assures him it’s nothing, they won’t look twice at a group of travelling performers, but he doubts it. Fake names, fake jobs, fake identities.

A solider stops at them, tall and dark haired and broad shoulders.

“Papers please,” he says sternly at Tanya, who freezes. With her wide eyes and muttering, Matteusz remembers how young she is.

“Problem officer?” Ram asks, handing over his exit paper. The officer casts a look at Tanya before taking Ram’s from him.

“We’re searching for someone illegally leaving the country,” he explains. The colour drains out of Tanya’s face and all Matteusz can taste in his mouth is metal as his hands shake.

“Didn’t have the right papers?” Ram jokes. Matteusz wonders where he learned to hide his panic so well, behind a charming smile and light voice. The only thing that might give him away is the white-knuckled grip on April’s hand.

“He had the right papers with the wrong name,” he explains. “Real name is Count Jones. He’s leaving with papers that don’t carry his real name.”

Before any of them can think of a reply or even hand over their papers, a gunshot rings throughout the train, the train jerks to a halt. Matteusz feels it in his chest and he’s not even the one who was shot. The last time he heard a gun being fired was eight years ago, but it was in the distance, streets away and he could block it out when he put his head under his pillow. This is close, far, far too close. The thought crosses his mind that a bullet could be shot through his heart at any moment. Even Dash freezes and curls up in himself, whimpering.

Charlie seems to be the worst affected. He lets out a blood curdling scream and immediately buries his face in Matteusz’s shirt, balling the fabric up in his fists and sobbing into his chest, his whole body shaking. Matteusz wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer. He feels like his blood has turned to ice, his organs have stopped working except for his lungs.

“I’ll go see what happened,” Ram says quietly, moving to get up, but April clamps a hand on his arm, not even looking at him, just starting straight ahead, her face tinted green.

“You know what happened, Ram,” she whispers. Ram nods but gets up anyway, stumbling and pushing his way through the crowd. April waits for a minute, frozen like a statue, before jerking to life and following him.

“I can’t stay here,” Tanya mumbled, tears in her eyes. She casts a worried look at Charlie and then back over the rest of the train. “Calm him down. Any tears will give us away.” She gets up and moves through the crowd like a small mouse, and Matteusz is left to deal with a panicking Charlie on his chest.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers as he starts caressing his hair. “We’ll be safe soon.”

“That’s what Mama told me when we were running,” he whispers. Confused, Matteusz tilt Charlie’s chin slightly to look at his face. It’s the same look he saw when they were in the street with that damn music box. He might be physically here but in his mind he is god knows where. “She told me just to keep running, there was a car waiting for me with decent men. They’d take us somewhere safe. The soldiers were outside, they were trying to break down the door. I was so tired, I didn’t know-”

“No one is breaking down anything,” he tells him, turning to check if anyone is looking at him. If he’s still playing along, he’s going too far. “Charlie I need you to calm down.”

“Matteusz what if I really am-” Matteusz covers his mouth before he can say another word, every nerve in his body screaming. He keeps his eyes on him, silently begging him to calm down. He can’t say that, not here, not with every soldier here having orders to shoot him if he says such things.

He watches as clarity comes back into his eyes. He takes his hand off his mouth but Charlie’s hands stay wrapped around his wrist, still shaking.

“You’ve been putting these ideas in my head,” he whispers. “I’m beginning to think they might be true.”

Matteusz freezes. Charlie said it so quietly but he feels like he screamed it in his face.

He believes it might be true.

He doesn’t know whether or not he wants him to believe it.

The train begins moving again as Ram, Tanya and April come barrelling down the carriage towards them, their eyes wide, all out of breath, Ram having something scrunched up in his fist.

“Three officers came on board with orders to arrest two girls and three boys,” Tanya says.

“That could be anyone,” Matteusz tells her.

“Could it?” Ram asks, unrolling the paper in his hand to reveal a wanted poster with their names faces on it.

They’re done for, Matteusz thinks as he looks at the poster, seeing their faces in shaky pictures, taken while they were walking down the street, not suspecting a thing.

“What do we do?” April asks, looking at each of them in turn. They can’t answer, of course.

Until Charlie turns and looks at the window.

“I have a plan,” he says. The first thing he does is lift Dash and place him in the bag, closing it tightly but as comfortably as he can around him. Then he stands up on the chair and begins tugging at the latch on the window and Matteusz wonders what will kill him first; the soldiers or the heart attack Charlie is about to give him.

“Charlie what are you doing?” he asks, feeling the black of wind blow on his face when the window jerks open.

“I didn’t come this far just to get a bullet in my brain,” he says.

“He’s mad,” Tanya says, looking back down the carriage. The soldiers are closer now again. “But he’s right.” She lifts her bag, jumps on the seat and pulls her window open.

“What else do we have to lose?” April asks.

Charlie opens the window as far as he can, but even then struggles to climb out of it. Matteusz can only watch helplessly as he pulls himself out of it and grips onto the railing on the other side, his heart nearly stopping when he sees his grip slip slightly before he clutches it tighter. His face is set in a mix of panic and determination he hasn’t seen anywhere before.

“Now or never, Matteusz,” April tells him while she has one leg on the other side.

Matteusz lifts his bag onto his shoulder and steps up on the seat. Charlie shuffles sideways to make room for him. He tries to give him a smile but it’s useless.

He takes a deep breath and swings one leg out of the window. Then the other and he’s on the outside, the wind attacking his back. He lets out a scream as he struggles to hold on. Even breathing is a trial.

“What do we do now?” he asks, not sure if anyone can hear him over the wind. He glances down for a split second and the sight of the ground moving below him almost makes him vomit.

“There’s only one thing to do,” Charlie says as the Republic officers come into view on the train. “Jump!”

And they do. Matteusz lets go of the railing and feels his body flying. He’s weightless for the briefest of moments, and he forgets about everything, Charlie, soldiers, London, Rhodia. Then he feels his body collide with the ground and it all comes crashing back to him.

“Is everyone okay?” April asks. They hear, more than see, the train go rushing past.

“Fine,” Matteusz pants.

“Great,” Tanya says. Matteusz smiles, despite everything. If she has enough energy to be sarcastic, she’ll be fine.

“Yeah, great,” Ram sighs.

“I’m okay,” Charlie says, sitting up and holding a whimpering, shaking Dash close to his chest. “So is Dash.”

They all slowly sit up and watch as the train becomes smaller and smaller in the distance, the noise quietening until it’s nearly silent.

“So what now?” April asks.

“Now….” Tanya says, pulling herself unsteadily to her feet before her knees give out and she finds herself on the ground again. “We wait until our legs work again. Then it seems we’re walking to France.”

                                                                                                *****

Quill isn’t sure she’s ever seen Dorothea so angry. Upset, yes. Maybe sometimes she’d elevate herself to pissed. But now as she passes her office, her shoulders tight, her desk still slightly rattled from where she slammed her stapler down on it, she’s risen again. Quill is half expecting steam to come out of her ears.

“The train crossed the Rhodian border,” she exclaims. “And they weren’t on it?”

“A temporary setback,” she assures her. “We’ll find them.” Dorothea ships around to look at her, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’d better hope you do, Lieutenant,” she snarls. Quill wonders why she doesn’t go out to search for them herself if she wants them caught so badly but knows better than to ask.

“They’re just little upstarts,” she tells him. “How hard can it be to catch five little juveniles?”

“If it’s so easy,” Dorothea asks, stepping closer and closer to Quill until she is right in her face, which is currently being sprayed with spit. “Why haven’t you done so already?”

“They think they can escape us,” she tells her. “They can’t. We’ll track them all the way to London if we have you.”

“You will,” Dorothea says, marching back to her desk. She composes herself and flicks an invisible lock of hair from her face. She regards Quill with cool, brown eyes that-if Quill believed in that kind of nonsense-would make her think she was looking directly into her soul. “If he isn’t Charles, bring them back here. We’ll make an example out of them.”

“And if he is?” she asks.

“Then finish the job your father started,” Dorothea orders. “Leave him floating in the Thames with a bullet in his brain. And his friends too if you can.”

Behind her back, Quill’s hands clench together and she rolls her lips in a tight line to keep them from trembling.

“Captain,” she begins after clearing her throat. “They may be criminals but at the end of the day… They’re children. You can’t expect me to….” She doesn’t want to finish. Dorothea narrows her eyes at her.

“Why not?” she asks, rising from her chair. “Your father would have had the guts. He was willing to shoot Prince Charles in the head.”

“Did he?” she asks through gritted teeth. She’s on the cusp of discovering something that could shatter her world, rewrite everything she’s known. “Did my father and his comrades kill the Prince that night?”

Dorothea takes in a deep breath. Forget Charles, she might be the one being shot.

“Come here, Quill.” Quill steps up to the desk, her palms sweating, her heart in her throat. “The short answer is I don’t know. That day… There were so many people. People shooting, people being shot at, royals fleeing, comrades storming the palace. They tore the place apart, your father included, but there was no sign of him.”

No sign of him.

Her father didn’t kill him.

“No sign of him,” she repeats. “He escaped?”

“How could he?” she responds. “There were guards on every exit. Even if he did, someone would have found him. The palace was swarmed, the borders armed. There was no way a child could have escaped it.” She doesn’t sound sure. “But no, your father did not get his chance at shooting him. So make sure you get yours. For your father if not for your country.”

Quill fingers the gun on her belt, biting her lip, her heart and mind conflicted. Dorothea lets out a sigh and comes over to her. She reaches over and lifts Quill’s gun from her.

“It’s really very simple,” she says, pointing the gun at her. Quill feels irrationally afraid; Dorothea is many things, but she would never shoot down one of her own officers. “You merely point the gun. Then pull the trigger and job is done.”

“When do we leave?” she asks, her mouth dry.

“Tomorrow morning,” she orders.

“I can’t, I need time to find somewhere for Kat,” she explains. “My mother won’t take her for more than a few days and-”

“I hope you’re not asking me for childcare, Quill,” she jokes. “Take the girl with you. If you do your job right, you don’t need to spend more than a few days there. And you always do your job right, Quill.” Quill nods. If it wasn’t clear her Captain understands nothing of people, it is now. Still, if the job is done in a few days, maybe there will be time to take Kat sightseeing. Admittedly, she knows little to nothing of English history, but they could visit Big Ben and Westminster and the London Eye, narrowly avoiding Buckingham Palace, naturally. All she has to do first is… kill or capture five children. Children her daughter may well grow up to look like. “Prince Charles. Alive or dead.” She slips the gun back into Quill’s belt. “It’s up to you.”

_Though the scars remain_

_And tears will never dry_

_I'll bless my homeland_

_Til I die..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this got wayyyy longer than intended but I couldn't find a satisfying place to end on until they were out of Rhodia so....


	6. Chapter 6

As it turns out, making their own way across a continent is significantly easier said than done. They agree to save what money they have from the diamond for food and accommodation in London, which means they live and eat simply, to put it mildly, across Europe, sleeping under bridges and in hostels, sharing plates of cheap takeaway under orange street lamps. Charlie never thought he’d miss the orphanage, but at least there he had a roof over his head and a bed-however hard and uncomfortable it was and however thin the sheets were. The others seem more used to their situation, but that doesn’t mean they like it. He knows they all spent varying amounts of weeks on the streets before finding each other.

Still, they adjust.

They take buses across borders, which thankfully don’t check their papers. Despite how tired he is, how much he craves a decent meal, Charlie has to admit, he is in love with Europe. They can walk through towns and cities without looking over their shoulders, they can say whatever they want and not worry about being arrested. They joke about how the Rhodian government would have a fit at the amount of high street shops, towering shining buildings with clothes made by people whose names they can barely pronounce, and decadent restaurants and cafes lining the streets.

Still, it’s not perfect. People sleep rough, like them, asking for change they can’t give, starving while other people don’t finish their meals in restaurants and Charlie can’t help but wonder… was Rhodia like this once? Restaurants and shops asking huge prices while others can’t afford a roof over their heads? Had his family been responsible for it?

It takes them weeks, but they reach Calais. Charlie honestly feels like crying when he sees the sign welcoming them.

They purchase tickets for a ferry to England that day, and decide to celebrate their last night in France with a bottle of whisky, bought by Matteusz, the least likely of all of them to be asked for ID. They end up sitting in an inn next to the harbour, passing the bottle around, Dash sitting quietly in Tanya’s lap.

“To Charlie,” April toasts. “The reason we’re all here.”

“I suppose the next time you drink something it’ll be out of a crystalline champagne glass,” Ram adds, passing him the bottle.

“Don’t celebrate yet,” he reminds them, trying not to gag on the whisky. “We’ve still got to convince the Queen Mother.”

“Speaking of which…” Matteusz says, looking over at Tanya with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, yes, okay,” she says, passing up on the drink. “I think I’ve sorted it. Clara Oswald attends this club, all ex-Rhodian nobles go to it, called Club Gallifrey, every night of the week. All we have to do is meet her out there and….”

“Beg, plead and whine until she gives us an audience?” April suggests. Tanya clicks her fingers in response.

“And if that doesn’t get her…” she turns to Charlie. “You’re our secret weapon. Just go up and give her that big wide-eyed sad orphan face we all love.”

Charlie laughs. Sad, wide-eyed orphan. That sounds like him. It’s who he’s always been, and now he’s days away from potentially finding a family.

He must have shown it on his face, because Matteusz’s hand covers his and Tanya brushes her knuckles against his leg.

“Anyways,” Ram says. “You think that’ll get us in?”

“Hopefully,” she says. Charlie pulls his jacket around himself. Weeks ago he had nothing but a hazy dream, now he’s climbed the ladder all the way to hopefully. It’s a long way to come, with has an equally long way to fall.

He can’t think what he’ll do if he finds himself back where he started.

Since it’s their last night in continental Europe, they decide to go all out and treat themselves to real beds in the inn next to the harbour. Ram points out that they’re nothing compared to what Charlie will be sleeping on once he’s back with his royal grandmother, but he’s just glad to have somewhere to put his head. They get two rooms; girls in one and boys in the other, although Tanya, Matteusz and Charlie are sure that April and Ram will make secret visits to each other’s rooms throughout the night.

He wonders what that’s like as he watches them in the corner, hands entwined and her lags swung over his, laughing softly at something he said. To have a space in someone’s heart. Having someone to laugh at nothing with and break down with the next minute. Someone who says “I’m here” with a mere touch of their hand.

He finds himself looking over at Matteusz, but when he looks back at him he drops his gaze, his cheeks turning pink.

                                                                                                *****

_Charlie sits on a wall overlooking the city. It’s quiet, but far form peaceful. Something brews beneath the surface. He feels like the city is a chord wound so tightly it’s about to snap and worst of all he has no idea why. He hears people whisper in the streets but can’t make out what they’re saying. The tension in the air makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up._

_The streets are deserted, lights in houses slowly fading to off. Above his head, even the stars seem to dim. He notices that there’s no moon. If it wasn’t for the street lamps, he’d be in near-total darkness. The though makes a pit form in his stomach._

_He feels a sharp tug on his leg and looks down to see a little boy, dark blond hair and big blue eyes, clinging to his leg, looking lost and afraid and oddly familiar. Charlie jumps down from the wall and squats next to him. Up close, he can see how perfect this child is, not a hair out of place, not a blemish on his body._

_“Are you okay?” he asks. The boy cocks his head to the side._

_“Can I tell you a secret?” he replies instead of giving him an answer._

_“Okay.” He looks over his shoulder to make sure no one can listen in and pulls Charlie close to him. He doesn’t know why he checked for passers-by. No one in their right mind would be out at this hour._

_“I’m going to die soon,” he whispers. He should look scared, but instead he says it matter-of-factly, even smiling slightly. “Unless somebody saves me.”_

_What can he say to that?_

_“Do you have a secret?” the boy asks._

_“I don’t know who I am,” Charlie mumbles. The boy shakes his head and giggles. It echoes through the night, the sound rolling along the ground and through the air._

_“That’s silly. Everyone knows who they are,” he insists._

_Charlie doesn’t remember walking anywhere, but he finds himself crouching in the trees next to the boy. Before them is a huge white building, he can’t even imagine how wide, with sprawling lawns and golden frames in the windows and double oak doors framed with white columns and decorated with golden handles. It looks like something out of a fairy tale, something that doesn’t belong here. It would be beautiful-if it weren’t burning. Black smoke billows out from the windows, staining windowsills and walls grey. A balcony on the third floor is destroyed; half of it lying on the ground._

_Even from where they sit, he can hear the sound of people screaming and bullets being fired. So many bullets, overlapping each other, not stopping even once._

_The boy doesn’t seem to hear any of it. He sits next to Charlie and watches as the front doors creak open, revealing more smoke and orange flames roaring inside it._

_He gets up and runs towards it._

_“No!” Charlie gasps, grabbing his arm and pulling him away. “No, you mustn’t, they’ll kill you!” The boy looks at him, frowning in confusion, and looks back at the palace. “They’ll kill you if you go in there!”_

_“No they won’t,” he assures him with a knowing smile. “Someone’s going to save me.” He wrenches his arm free of Charlie and runs towards the building. Charlie can’t move as he watches the boy running through the doors, disappearing into the black smoke._

_Then a gunshot rings out._

_“No!” he screams. He throws himself forward and runs to follow him, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He stumbles over the threshold and for a moment, there’s nothing. Just blackness as smoke fills his lungs and he feels certain he’s about to die._

_Amazingly, the smoke clears just enough for him to see what’s in front of him; a man all in black, his clothes stained with something he doesn’t want to know, holding a small silver gun in his hands, also stained with red._

_A gun pointed directly at him._

_He should run. Or beg for his life. Or fight back. But instead all he does is stand there as he steps closer to him._

_“For the revolution,” the man whispers._

_Charlie doesn’t have time to ask what he means before he pulls the trigger, and a bullet is fired from the gun, and rips through his chest-_

                                                                                                                ******

The scream catches in Charlie’s throat as he sits up. He presses his shaking hand against his chest; no bullet wound, heart still beating, lungs still breathing.

He looks around the unfamiliar room for a moment, taking in the brown walls in the low light, the small table, the mirror, the ceiling that seems far too close to his head…

No, not a ceiling. Another bed. The top bunk.

Everything comes back to him; escaping Rhodia, travelling to France, checking into the inn. Matteusz claiming the bunk above his.

That’s real. This is real.

“Mate,” Ram whispers next to him. He sees Ram sitting on the floor, next to his bed, one trouser leg rolled up to reveal his right leg ending at the knee. His fake leg lies at the end of his bed. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he lies. He moves to sit on the ground and lean his back against his bed, pulling his knees to his chest. “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Ram answers, shaking his head. “I woke up before you.” He doesn’t need to tell him what woke him. He’s experienced more than a few nights of Ram waking up screaming, reliving the awful events of eight years ago, and some days after that.

Ram’s hand rubs the stump of his leg. Charlie has wondered of course, and had his suspicions, but never outright asked.

“The revolution,” he explains, seeing Charlie’s expression. “I was… I went outside. My dad told me to stay inside but he hadn’t come back. He was out there trying to defend the palace. He was really loyal to the royal family. And he told me he’d be back soon.” In the dim light, Charlie can see Ram’s eyes fill with tears.

“It’s okay,” he tells him, but he’s pretty sure Ram doesn’t hear.

“I went outside to look for him,” he continues. “It was a bloodbath. People were carrying knives and lit torches and firing guns.” He winces and reaches out to the lower leg he no longer has. “I felt something hit me in the leg. I woke up in the hospital later and they told me….” He doesn’t finish and claps his hand over his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie says. “That… that’s awful.”

“That damn revolution did us so much more harm than good,” he says bitterly. “Don’t get me wrong the royals were….” He trails off and looks up at Charlie and smiles shakily. “Sorry mate. Your family after all.”

“Apparently,” he says. They fall silent and Charlie presses his hand at his chest again, making sure it’s still whole. He can still feel the bullet entering his chest. He feels his heart beat against his palm, feels his chest rise and fall and listens to Matteusz’s soft snoring. He smiles, despite everything. He could sleep through anything.

“Hey,” Ram says. “Can I ask you something?” Charlie nods slowly. “Something really messed up must have happened to you to lose your memory like that.” He chuckles. Trust Ram to be so tactful. “Why… Why would you want to remember that?”

Charlie pushes his hair back, pulling it tightly. It seems time to unload everything he’s held in his heart for the past eight years. Hopefully he’ll feel lighter after this.

“Because…” He swallows thickly. “Because all I’ve known is that I was left at the hospital. I don’t know why or who left me there. I don’t know if someone out there loves me and left me there to keep me safe, or if I was left there because they just didn’t care about me anymore.’’ He pulls his knees in tighter, wrapping his arms around himself. Ram winces in sympathy.

‘‘Oh… mate I…’’ He sighs. “I’m sorry. I get it.” They smile at each other and Charlie loosens the grip he has on his legs.

He supposes that if he doesn’t find what he’s looking for in London, he can at least fall back with them. He hopes.

                                                                                                  *****

Matteusz finds there’s something calming in watching the ocean. It goes on forever and mostly beats a gentle rhythm. It looks so pure and beautiful, the whole expanse of water around them the one shade of dark blue, except for the part where the run reflects on the water.

Here on the boat, he feels freedom sink in for the first time. Not total freedom; he still needs money for that. Which he’ll get through lying to an old woman and making her think she’s reunited with what’s left of her family. But now, he feels the freedom of endless places to go and saying whatever he likes and not living with his family’s ghosts hanging over him. Reading real books and magazines and even thinking about having access to the internet.

When they stopped in a small town in Germany, he and Charlie slipped into a library and poured over all the books that wouldn’t have been seen on a shelf in Rhodia, ranging from ancient philosophers to graphic novels. And some things a little more… mature.

He still blushes thinking about it.

Behind him, he hears the rest of his friends giggling and talking quietly, providing a background noise to the sound of the waves beneath him and the peaceful skyline before him. When he turns to look at them, he sees Charlie and April in what he assumes is meant to be a waltz position, but they’re so awkward it’s honestly hard to tell if they’re dancing or if Ram has glued their hands together out of boredom.

Charlie glances at Matteusz sheepishly and huffs an awkward laughs. His cheeks are already turning pink. He and April step stiffly around the floor, April looking at Ram and Charlie looking at… Him.

They’re awful. No one is leading, no offense to April but she has two left feet and whatever beat Tanya is humming they aren’t following.

He has to stop this.

“Here,” he says, motioning for them to fall apart. “Whose idea was this?”

“Mine,” Tanya admits. “If he’s going to dance at a ball, he’s going to need to learn to dance at one.” Matteusz nods. It makes sense, of course. “And I’m too small and Ram doesn’t dance.” Matteusz raises an eyebrow. “Okay, April used to dance when she was little.”

“Okay,” he chuckles. “Why don’t you let me show you?” This time it’s their turn to raise eyebrows.

“You dance?” Ram asks.

“You don’t know what I do,” he replies. And no, he doesn’t dance, but he’s read books. Jakub used to have a book on every type of dance which he’d read under the covers by torchlight. They nod and April falls back, allowing Matteusz to take her place.

When he steps up to Charlie, Matteusz wonders if the pink on his cheeks has actually spread or if it’s his imagination or a trick of the light.

“So it’s like this,” he explains. “I’ll be the girl-”

That sets the entire group giggling. Among his own laughter and recognition that yes, that probably was not the best way to phrase it, he notices how nice Charlie’s laugh is, it’s soft and bright and his nose crinkles ever so slightly.

“Why is dancing so heterosexual?” Tanya asks, still laughing slightly.

“It’s a mystery,” Matteusz replies.

“Especially since gay people dance better,” Charlie adds. “It’s a fact.”

A weight lifts from Matteusz’s chest, one he didn’t know was there in the first place. The old regime in Rhodia made no secret what they thought of anyone who wasn’t straight. He couldn’t even joke about liking boys (although he couldn’t do that before the revolution with his deeply religious parents) and now he can openly joke about how disgustingly straight ballroom dancing is.

“Anyway,” he continues. “I’ll be the… submissive-no that’s worse.”

“Kinky!” Ram remarks, being rewarded with a punch from April.

“Anyway!” he sighs. “You know what I mean. Now Charlie you put your hand here…” He places Charlie’s hands on his waist. “And I put my hand here…” His hands go on his shoulder and he can’t help smiling. “Hand then we join our hands like this.” When their hands join, Matteusz begins finding it hard to breathe. “Now we dance.” Charlie nods. Matteusz hesitates before starting, counting the beats softly under his breath. Charlie simply follows along with whatever he does and it feels like Matteusz is pulling him along, which is the opposite of what the prince should be like. “Charlie you lead.”

“I don’t know how to,” Charlie protests.

“Yes you do,” Matteusz insists, moving closer to him and lowering his voice so that only Charlie can hear. “You can do this.”

“Really?” Charlie asks. Matteusz nods. Whether he is Charles or not, Matteusz knows he can do this. He’s watched him go from street urchin to faux aristocrat. Charlie nods and takes a deep breath. “I lead.”

They stop mid-step and Charlie starts it again, guiding Matteusz around the deck that serves as their dancefloor. He’s far from an expert, but it’s there; if he didn’t know better he’d think it was ingrained in him from birth. He could fool the Queen Mother. He could fool the whole court. He could almost fool Matteusz himself.

“There you go, you’re doing it,” he tells him. Charlie huffs a laugh.

“I told you gays dance better than straights,” he replies. Matteusz chuckles and while he isn’t totally sure why, pulls Charlie closer.

Dance partners should be close to each other, right?

"I'm getting a bit dizzy," Charlie confesses before stopping and dropping his hands. "Probably all the dancing."

"Yes," Matteusz agrees. Funnily enough, when Charlie lets go of him, he doesn't find it any easier to breathe. Despite how dizzy he feels, he just wants to keep holding him and dancing with him until they get to England.

                                                                                                *****

They dock in Dover just as evening comes in and the horizon turns yellow. Charlie grips his bag tightly to keep his hands from shaking and when his feet hit the ground he thinks how he’s might finally be in the same place as his family. That just a few miles from here might be someone who loves him and wants him.

It’s overwhelming, dizzying. And frankly, a little sickening.

“This is it,” April sighs. They should move along, but they stand on the dock quietly. It’s not ‘it’ yet. ‘It’ is London. But in Dover they’re met with a striking white cliff overlooking the dock and a crisp breeze and green fields in the distance. They’re shooed off the dock but keep making time to take it all in

Train prices turn out to be way above their current budget, and they have to settle for a coach. An overcrowded, small coach with one toilet and hard seats and little to no legroom, which is less of a problem, more of one for them and even more of one for Matteusz, who can’t even tuck his legs on the seat.

He settles for taking over Charlie’s legroom and their legs tangle together and if he should mind, he doesn’t. Possibly because he’s too busy staring out the window with every possible outcome of their adventure racing through his mind while his heart beats frantically and his whole body feels cold and clammy. He could be welcomed with open arms and kissed and given everything he’s ever wanted, showered with jewels and money. Or she could take one look at him and bolt the door in his face.

Or he could be executed. Can she still execute people? Is claiming to be her grandson a crime?

Matteusz shifts in his sleep next to him, rubbing his cheek on his shoulder. Charlie places his hand on his knee and strokes it with his thumb rhythmically. Sitting there with Matteusz next to him and the sinking sun on his face, he feels the adrenaline catch up to him and leave him struggling to keep his own eyes open.

He wakes up to a too-bright light in his face and lifts his hand to block it. He wriggles his heavy limbs and blinks in the artificial light before Matteusz’s arm hits him in the face.

“Sorry,” he says, half giggling.

“That’s okay,” Charlie laughs. He shakes his hands to get some feeling back into them and looks out the window, spatters of light rain on the window and tall black iron street lamps glowing a dull orange and light brown stone buildings which looked 200 years old but housed small shops with bright signs and steel blue light inside. They were so different from the shops back home,  The streets are fairly packed; people in suits and families with young kids and teenagers jog up and down the street, in a hurry to get to work or go home. “Where are we?” He’s sure he already knows.

“London,” Matteusz whispers.

Charlie rests his hand against the window. London. Eight years of dreaming and hoping and wondering and thinking he’d never set foot here and now…

“It’s not what I imagined,” he remarks. “Where’s the big clock, where’s the river?”

“They’re somewhere,” Matteusz assures him. “This is just some bus stop, I guess.” Charlie hums in understanding, continuing to look out the window. “Anyway I think this is a pretty poor part. Your grandmother will be up in the rich part.”

He nods and tries not to think too much about the words “your grandmother”.

 

_One step at a time_

_One hope, then another_

_Who knows where this road may go_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, sorry if this feels a little all over the place, it's mostly to get them from France to London and let Charlie and Matteusz dance because that's how we do.  
> Next chapter we (finally) meet the Queen Mother and see what she's been doing in the 8 years since her family was killed.


	7. Chapter 7

After leaving Rhodia, Queen Alia bid farewell to her beloved Charles and her most trusted lady-in-waiting, Countess Clara Oswald, not wanting to take too many on her trip and seeing Clara needed some time off, and set off for London. She had resided in her apartments since then; they had been in the family since her grandmother. A penthouse suite on the top floor of the towering building, overlooking the city skyline, stretching as far as the eye could see. At night, the city of London came alive, lighting up in orange and blue and red and green against the dark backdrop while music snaked through the streets and Alia could stand safely in her apartment and watch it all and think about how much Charles will love it when he comes.

Then she hears about unrest in the Capitol. She’s no fool; she knows that the people aren’t content, they weren’t during her reign, why should they be during her son’s? She had tried to talk to him, begged him to listen to what the protestors said, see reason, but he had brushed her aside, assuring her that Rhodia was strong enough to withstand anything. He had said it with such conviction that she believed him, even all those miles away.

Then she heard of the riots in the Capitol.

And began seeing nobles from Rhodia coming to England by boat, including Clara, who turned up on her doorstep with a half-packed bag and tears streaming down her delicate face.

And then she heard about the storming of the palace.

And then… Then she was sent a letter from an old general, written, he said, just days before he was due to be executed himself.

Her son.

His wife.

His child. Her only grandson. Her beautiful Charles. Shot down in the place they called home.

London suddenly became her home. Her penthouse apartment her prison, along with Clara, who stepped into the job of lady in waiting without question and with little complaint. She placed a photograph of each member of her lost family on her dresser, Charles in the middle, smiling brightly at the camera. Some small, persistent presence in her heart tells her he was still alive, that he was out there waiting for her to bring him home. At night, she can sit in silence and listen to the sound of his voice in her head. She still hears him as a small child, even though he should be nearly a man soon. He should be nearly a King himself, the last heir to the throne. She finds herself spending more time than she used to in her bedroom. No make-up, no jewels, no gowns. Just her and her photographs. A mad old woman and figments of her imagination.

Still, foolish as she is, when she goes to bed, she keeps the lamp on for him,

                                                                                           

* * *

 

“She can’t always be resting.”

Clara wonders briefly how unladylike she would be considered if she drop kicked Count Masters down the staircase. When she came into the lobby, after coming in from brunch with Countess Potts, she had been greeted with the entirely unpleasant sight of Count Masters, who had taken the liberty of escorting her to the penthouse apartment she now shares with the Queen Mother. He chatted to her about the weather and the theatre and nightlife and then, like always, he asked about the Queen Mother’s health, and, like always, mentioned he had an important matter to discuss with her.

She wishes that just once he’d change his structure at least.

“The Queen Mother knows I have important papers for her to sign,” he persists, following her into her living room.

“Papers designating you the heir to her family’s fortune,” she laughs, sitting herself on the sofa and turning to face him. He’s closed the door behind him, and it briefly crosses her mind that no one would hear if she kicked him right now. “She will never sign them.” She’s known the Queen Mother for years, and she’s nothing if not stubborn. The day she signs her fortune over to anyone who isn’t her blood relation, let alone Count Masters, will only come after she is dead and someone forges her signature.

The Count narrows his eyes and takes a step towards her, brushing a speck of dirt off his immaculate white suit.

“She’s an old woman who’s outlived her place in history,” he spits back. “Charles is a pathetic product of her deranged imagination.”

Clara clenches her fist against the cushions. She should tell him to have empathy for her. She knows full well his lover died in Rhodia that night as well, and how he should think how she feels. She feels his pain, only tripled.

Her eyes fall on the pile of letters on the coffee table. Every morning without fail, letters have arrived for the past eight years, from anywhere and everywhere; Barbados, Hungary, Canada, Thailand. All young men claiming to be Prince Charles. Never him, but she won’t let Alia give up on her grandson. Sometimes she wonders if it’s the only thing keeping the old woman sane.

“Eventually I will be recognised as the sole beneficiary of the King’s estate, by international court of law,” he goes on. Clara lets out a long, steady breath and relaxes her fist. She turns to him with a pained smile, hoping he sees the strain in her cheeks.

“I’ll tell Her Majesty you called,” she tells him, rising to her feet and going over to him. She motions her head towards the door, not allowing him to act confused. He looks at it and back to her, mouth gaping.

“You will be at the Gallifrey Club this evening, Clara?” he asks.

“Along with every other former Rhodian in London,” she replies.

“I will want the first dance,” he tells her. “I’ve been practicing my Charleston.”

“Well, sadly I’ve promised that to Countess Ashildr,” she replies, grinning as she watches his face fall. “She is a very beautiful woman.”

“Indeed.” Clara holds out her hand and he kissed it gently before turning proudly and walking out the door.

She wipes her hand on the side of her dress.

“Is he gone?” a voice asks from the master bedroom. Slowed and cracked slightly with age, but a Queen is a Queen. Still rich and commanding and regal.

“You Imperial Majesty,” Clara greets as she comes in. She wears a black robe over her dress, her grey hair held back in a braid. She even walks like she’s still in court, her head held high, her back as straight as she can make it.

“He’s like a dog with a bone,” she grumbles. “How is Countess Potts?”

“She’s well,” she answers. “She was asking after you.”

“Her and every other noble in London,” she sighs, sinking into her armchair. “Doubting I’m even alive.”

“Not everyone is Count Masters, your Majesty,” she reminds her. “Some just miss you.” She pushes the corner of the envelope into her palm. “Only five letters today.”

“Oh,” she groans, closing her eyes. “If only I could lose hope entirely. I used to open each one trembling, tears in my eyes, thinking ‘could this be my beloved Charles?’. But after so many imposters I’ve come to dread the morning post.”

Clara nods, thinking about the many fakes she has stupidly allowed to see the Queen Mother. They always slip up at some point, usually with a trick question Alia thinks up herself to catch them, some secret only she and Charles would know. She loves how crafty she can be sometimes.

“Dear Grandmother,” she reads from the first one. “Remember that one happy summer we spent in Venice?”

“Venice,” she chuckles. “They certainly do their homework.”

“Strange and bizarre events have brought me to Jamaica,” she continues reading. “Bring me to London, and I will convince you I am Charles.”

“He wants me to pay his passage?” she asks. “At least that imposter from Buenos Aires paid his own way.” Clara nods and crumples up the letter, throwing it to the side. It’ll make for good fuel for the fire later on. She opens the next one.

“Dearest Grandmama,” she begins.

“I was never grandmama!” she explodes. “I was grandmother. Or Nana. Never grandmama, he would never say that!” Alia claps her hand over her mouth, beginning to tremble. Clara feels her heart break. She normally makes it through four letters. Sometimes she manages to make it through every one of them.

Not today.

“They take me for a fool,” she says sadly. “Grandmama…” She looks at the letters in Clara’s hands as though they’re spiders or snakes. Like the sheer force of hatred in her eyes could burn them. “No more. No more letters. No more interviews.”

“But-”

“No more.” She clutches her chest and Clara understands. She made it out alive. Some of her friends and family, people she loves, weren’t so lucky. Still, the finality in the Queen Mother’s voice makes her tremble.

“There will be other young men,” she reminds her, her voice soft. “What will I tell them?”

“Tell them,” she says. Her voice shakes. “Tell them Prince Charles is dead. And the Queen Mother is dead with him.”

Clara presses her hands together to keep them from shaking. She should refuse to allow her to give up hope, but she knows it would be cruel to keep tempting her heart like this. Keep having imposters come in and out of her apartments on the off chance one is Charles.

And besides, no one can change Alia’s mind when she decides something. Not even her.

“I’ll be going out soon,” she says, her voice tiny. Alia doesn’t even react. She keeps staring directly ahead. Clara may as well not even be there. Her lips are moving but no sound comes out; none Clara can hear anyway. “I’ll leave the lamp on for you.”

                                                                                            

* * *

 

Clara’s door clicks shut, leaving Alia alone in the dark. The only light is the orange glow of the lamp on the table beside the sofa, the only sounds the ticking of the clock leaning against the wall and her own strained, heavy breathing.

Three unopened envelops sit on the table; each one feels like it’s laughing at her, tempting her to open it, reading the words, analysing the writing, searching for something familiar in the words or the script. Her heart skipping a beat when she sees a letter i without a dot or seeing “should of” rather than “should have”. His father would clip him around the ear for making such silly mistakes in his writing, and he’d come running to her, clinging to her skirts. She’d run her hand over his beautiful hair and kiss his cheek and give him chocolate and tell him how much she loved him until he started smiling again.

She rises and moves over to the fireplace, lifting a framed photograph off the mantlepiece. She doesn’t think he knew he was having his picture taken at the time, but it was so long ago. He was about five, sitting on a bench in the garden next to her, laughing at something she had said, or something someone else had done. She doesn’t remember what they were doing, or why they were outside, but she remembers his laugh. Her Charles had such a beautiful laugh, and he laughed often, finding anything and everything amusing. He’d even get confused when no one else laughed with him. She runs her hand over the glass, tracing his delicate cheeks.

Eight years is such a long time. A long time to keep her heart open, to keep her door open. A long time to look other young men in the eye and find some blemish, some imperfection in them. Hair too dark, too many freckles (Charles never had freckles, never even tanned), couldn’t answer something about his own family, couldn’t remember the name of his favourite toy. A long time to keep watching them walk out the door.

She was a Queen. People used to kneel before her and kiss her ring. Now people come in her door only to try to make a fool of her.

“He’s dead,” she whispers, her finger lingering on the photo in her hand. “You’re dead.” The words echo throughout the room, taunting her, mocking her, tearing at her heart and soul.

Even before whispers of her grandson’s survival had begun to surface, she had felt he was alive in her heart. A small, frantic beat of hope in her chest that she clung to all these years, now she knows it was a foolish lie. An insane dream of an old woman who longs for the world to be the way it should have been instead of the way it is. Who lives the past, in a world of glittering dresses and fine suits and crystal chandeliers and little boys who run to her and kiss her cheeks.

“I should have taken you with me when I had the chance,” she whispers to him. She should have taken him to London like he asked. Then he would be here with her and not buried in an unmarked grave in the woods with a bullet hole in his chest.

With a trembling hand, she places the picture face down on the mantlepiece, humming an old song under her breath, a song passed down through her family. When she dies, it will die with her.

                                                                                                

* * *

 

Clara welcomes how cold the night is. Her rooms, and indeed, her whole apartment, feels far too warm, too stuffy, almost claustrophobic. At least out on the streets of London she can breathe, run in any direction and forget anything she wants to.

In the middle of a busy street, standing tall and proud, is the Gallifrey Club. Founded by a Rhodian aristocrat barely a year after arriving in London. As the story goes, he bought up the building, renovated it, and employed all the old servants and maids that nobles and aristocrats had taken with them when they escaped the revolution. The Capitol on the Thames, people were calling it. The bar staff keep the Rhodian gin stocked and the vodka flowing. Against the ink-blue sky, the white paint stands out, the gold lettering shines and acts like a beacon for any lost Rhodian noble looking to get drunk and dance and act like they’re still living in the land of yesterday.

Which, as it happens, is precisely what Clara plans to do.

“Countess Oswald,” the bouncer greets. “How lovely you look this evening.”

“Flattery will get you absolutely everywhere,” she tells him.

“Countess Oswald!” a voice calls from behind her. It makes her start; it sounds far too young to be any of her friends, yet the accent is distinctly Rhodian. She turns immediately, holding her hand out to tell the bouncer to stand down.

A respectful distance away from her stands a small group of teenagers. She almost laughs at how young they look; they can’t be more than 17, and one of them looks even younger. They can’t be fellow ex-nobles; she’d know them and their clothes are far too shabby.

“Yes?” she says, taking a step towards them. The youngest looking one; a girl with dark braids, steps forward nervously.

“Um… We need… with respect… we’re looking for an audience with the Queen Mother,” she says, pulling at her sleeve. “It’s a matter of urgency.”

“What kind of matter of urgency?” she asks. The girl opens her mouth but nothing comes out, her eyes darting everywhere but Clara.

“We have someone she needs to meet,” her companion, another girl, speaks up. She tilts her chin up, straightens her shoulders, and for a moment she looks like she could pass for an aristocrat. “We’d like to present the Crown Prince Charles.”

Clara shakes her head, half smiling. She’s never been approached in the street like this. They’re unique, she can give them that.

“You’re about an hour too late,” she tells them. “The Queen Mother has decided no more. No more young men, no more interviews.”

“What?” the girl asks.

“She’ll make it public in due course,” she says. “But she’s made up her mind. Prince Charles is dead. Queen Alia dead with him.” Her throat tightens and her eyes begin to sting but damn it, she will not cry. She will not be seen crying, no matter how much it hurts her heart to say those words out loud.

“What?” another voice asks, male this time. She looks past the two girls, her eyes landing on a young boy with a small grey dog nestled in his arms. About 17 years old. About the same age Charles would be now…

“Come here,” she tells him. After looking at his companions, who give him encouraging nods, he steps forwards and she moves him into the light of a street lamp. She had seen Charles a few times; at balls, birthdays, social gatherings, the odd state funeral. She had a good grip on what his face looked like, and now she feels like she’s seeing it again. She’s seen many imposters who bear striking resemblances to the Prince, but they pale in comparison to him. He even has his father’s eyes. She reaches out and tilts his chin upwards.

What strikes her as odd is that he doesn’t talk. Each one she meets does his best to impress her by showing off his knowledge of the royal family or sweet-talking her, telling her how he remembers how much he enjoyed when she came to visit (it was easy to weed those ones out). This one just looks at her with wide eyes and held breath. She notices that his hand gets faster and more tense as it strokes his dog’s fur.

The Queen Mother’s words echo in her mind. No more. No more interviews.

But then she looks at him and everything she said melts away. Something in her gut screams that this boy has to meet the Queen Mother.

“Tomorrow,” she says and she watches his exhale. He looks like someone lifted a heavy weight off his shoulders. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small plastic card. “Come to this address. We can talk there.”

“Thank you,” he says finally. There’s something about his voice; it’s far too strong and fitting for a street urchin. And the way he says the words, he sounds like he’s close to fainting. “Thank you.”

She smiles at him as he goes back to his companions, all of whom take a look at her card and whisper amongst themselves.

She can only hope some good comes of this.

“Clara!” another voice, thankfully familiar this time, greets from behind her. She turns with a smile to see Countess Ashildr, looking lovely in a purple evening dress and short black jacket. “How wonderful to see you.”

“Likewise, Countess,” she says. “Why don’t I escort you in?”

“Only if you let me buy you a drink,” she says, winking. Clara blushes as feels her insides melt.

In the Gallifrey Club, she will drink and dance with whomever she pleases, reminiscing about the old days when they lived in palaces as opposed to flats, had at least six ladies in waiting as opposed to being one herself, discuss the plans to visit the theatre this week, especially with the European ballet back in London, and drink some more, hide their sorrows behind smiles, drown them in wine and gin. They celebrate that they aren’t dead, and in private moments in toilet stalls, they mourn those who are. They let themselves loose and go live in the imperial heyday that was Rhodia. As long as the night is young and the alcohol flows, they live like the aristocrats they are.

Or can still pretend to be.

                                                                                                                

* * *

 

Quill arrives in London during the night. She steps off the boat with a sleeping Kat in her arms, one of her comrades taking Kat’s bag. It gives her some amusement watching him carry a pink and blue suitcase around London.

Her back remains on her shoulders. She became accustomed to travelling light when she was still a young woman. Kat insisted on taking almost everything she owned. Quill laughed and managed to compromise with her; two coats were all she’d need, another pair of shoes, a few skirts and she couldn’t talk Kat out of bringing what she liked to call “her special dress”; dark purple with a pattern of butterflies sewn onto it. In addition to her clothes, Kat took some colouring books, her doll and three of her favourite bedtime stories.

It seems the phrase “like mother, like daughter” doesn’t apply in this instance; Quill has only a change of shirt and trousers in her bag (she and her comrades left their uniforms in Rhodia after Dorothea declared this an undercover mission), toiletries and… her gun. Loaded up, and with two extra cases of ammunition in case she needed it.

She shouldn’t need it. Five shots. Five bullets. That should be next to nothing for her.

“Mum?” Kat murmurs, squirming in her arms. Quill’s first thought is to wonder if she’s been to the toilet yet, because at four, bed-wetting still causes problems. And right now, she is the bed.

“It’s all right, my darling,” she whispers, kissing her temple. “Look, we’re here. We’re in London.” Kat grumbles and lifts her head, eyes half open to look at the scene, before she drops back onto Quill’s shoulder, her breathing slowing again. Quill chuckles and kisses her head again. With her free hand, she pulls the strap of her bag up on her shoulder, heavy with the weight of the gun.

Five bullets. Five kids.

It shouldn’t be hard. It shouldn’t scare her.

But it does.

_In my heart I know_

_You're a lie that I've waited for_

_Tell them all to go_

_Tell them all no more_

_Tell them I close the door_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo I know there's not a lot of the gang in this chapter btu I wanted to set up the Queen Mother and Clara (y'all like Clara, right?).  
> Next chapter, the kids will be back in focus as Charlie gets ready to possibly see his grandmother again.


	8. Chapter 8

London truly is beautiful. Charlie would say it’s the stuff of dreams, only he’s dreamt of London before and it doesn’t compare.

They’re standing on a bridge overlooking the river Thames. The sky is almost black now, lit up with too many stars to even try to count and yellow lights glow up and down either side of the river, their reflections dancing on the water. He’d never seen a city like it before; the amount of towering buildings that, unlike Rhodia, weren’t missing windows or grubby and crumbling with disuse, the bright red buses flying past them as they made their way through streets, crowded but buzzing with life, where at home the streets seemed to be suffocating. He’s felt it in his chest, it’s easier to breathe here, thought that could be something to do with the fact that they don’t have to constantly look over their shoulder here. Or it might be something to do with the fact that he might just belong here.

But they aren’t out of the woods yet. Even here, in London, with its bright shining lights and whirlwind way of life, he isn’t finished yet. But he’s so close he can almost let himself taste it.

Dash nudges against his legs as he looks out at the water, pressing his hands against the bridge to try to get them to stop shaking.

Twenty four hours. In twenty four hours, everything in his life could be different. No more Charlie the orphan. No more wondering where his family is, why they left, why he was dropped at the hospital. He might be Charlie the lost Prince of Rhodia. He could be spending his life dining in fine restaurants and wearing suits and going to the ballet and opera and living in a penthouse.

“Do you think we’ll still be friends?” It takes him a while to realise he’s said it out loud. The rest turn to look at him; April, Ram and Tanya on his left and Matteusz on his right, all four of them frowning in confusion. “Just… when this is all over… if she accepts me, if I am this Prince… do you think we’ll still be friends?”

“Of course we will,” April answers immediately, rubbing his shoulder with the soft smile he’s come to associate with her. “We’ll always be friends.”

“That is, if you don’t find some rich friends and dump us for them,” Ram adds in, leaning so far on the bridge that his chest nearly rests on the stone. Charlie doesn’t worry about him falling though, it seems too wide and too strong for that.

“I don’t think I ever would,” he confesses. “You’re the best friends I’ve ever had. I mean, you’re the only friends I’ve ever had-” They burst into laughter and Charlie feels his cheeks go pink. “But I’ve had more fun with you than I’ve had… ever, I guess.” Dash’s paws rub against his legs incessantly and he gives in and picks him up, holding him tight against his chest, worrying more than a little that he might drop him into the water.

“We’ve enjoyed being with you too,” Matteusz tells him. “They’d never say it, they’re too proud, but they are.” Tanya sticks her tongue out at him, but she smiles.

“Yeah, we have,” she says, twirling one of her braids around her finger, looking out at the water. “What a view, right?”

“You’d never have got a few like that in Rhodia,” Ram adds softly. Charlie silently disagrees. He remembers him and Matteusz standing on top of the apartment block, looking over the city, a lifetime ago, even if it was only a few weeks at most. But Ram’s right; the sight of the lights against the dark water tonight is quite beautiful.

He thinks that maybe the next time he sees it, it will be with his grandmother. They can share in a night like this night together. She can hold his hand and tell him the history of the bridge. He looks out at all the lights up and down the streets. Some of them are on shops and clubs, but some are on houses.

One of them could be her.

                                                                                                *****

The address Countess Oswald gave them is a small hotel, away from the busier streets and large shops and theatres. A part of him is disappointed that it’s not the Queen Mother’s own apartments, but he corrects himself. He is hardly in a position to be disappointed by anything. It’s quite sweet, Charlie supposes. Cobblestones line the pavement, flowers grow in window-boxes, bunting flutters gently in the light breeze. He keeps listing details in a near obsessive manner to keep his mind occupied.

He seems incapable of anything other than small, shallow breaths, even more so as they approach it, all panting a little. They managed to take two wrong turns and seeing the time getting away from them, ran the last stretch. Still, the clock on the front of the hotel ticks closer to twelve. They seem to be just on time.

Charlie catches sight of himself in the window and he hopes he isn’t as pale as he looks there. He barely slept the night before, sitting at the window staring at the sky, drawing the city scenes on the paper provided by their hotel. A metallic taste hangs in his mouth and his stomach feels like it dropped ten storeys. He just hopes he doesn’t vomit (even though he didn’t actually eat this morning). That would be the worst impression to make on his possible grandmother’s lady in waiting.

They’re led into the hotel by a straight faced, grey-haired butler, who shows them into a small, carpeted parlour where Countess Oswald sits at a small dark wooden table. She waves her hand and the butler leads them over to her, bowing slightly as they sit on the plush couch opposite her.

“Thank you, Redmond,” she says. “Perhaps another pot of tea?” The butler nods and leaves. The Countess looks pretty in a knee-length baby blue dress and heels, her hair hanging loosely around her shoulders. Pretty, but different from the woman they met at the club. Softer somehow, especially when she smiles, almost easing Charlie’s anxieties.

“Thank you,” he says. “For agreeing to meet us.”

“I’m taking a huge gamble with you,” she says. “Really I shouldn’t be doing this at all. The Queen Mother said she won’t meet any more young men.”

“Why are you, then?” he asks. Countess Oswald smiles to herself.

“I don’t know, really,” she says. “I just have this feeling. I hope you don’t prove me wrong.”

“I hope so too,” he says, his voice tight.

“Tea?” she offers as the butler comes with a pot and five delicate cups.

“Not for me, thank you. I don’t drink it.” Countess Oswald leans back in her chair with a contented smile.

“First test passed,” she says.

She begins questioning him and he rattles the answers off by heart. He feels himself taken back to the old theatre in Rhodia, naming uncles and aunts and cousins, holiday destinations and favourite meals and birthdays and palaces. Even names of architects and servants and designers his parents favoured. The whole time, he doesn’t relax. With each right answer, all he becomes is more anxious, even when Clara smiles, even when she seems caught out. She is clever, tossing in trick questions to catch him out.

At some point, Matteusz gets up and leans against the wall, pressing his hands to his lips. April and Ram hold hands so tightly they might be in danger of breaking a bone and Tanya’s leg can’t stop bouncing if she tries. But if he’s honest, they may as well not even be there. All he can think about is the Countess.

“Well,” she says, taking a sip of her tea and he wonders if he’s finally done enough. Finally convinced her that he is the Prince. “This might seem an odd question, but indulge me… How did you escape during the siege of the palace?”

At first, he feels like he’s been slapped across the face. The one question Tanya couldn’t prepare him for. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her slump forward with her face in her hands. He wants to apologise, but he can’t, not under the Countess’ eye and even then, he feels trapped in his body, like someone froze him. For a few seconds, he feels like he can’t even breathe.

Then, something unfurls in his mind. Sounds at first, attacking him from all sides, shouting and gunfire and screaming, windows breaking, doors slamming, boots running up and down halls. Charlie grabs the edge of the couch as tight as he can to ground him, stop him from getting lost in whatever episode unfolds. He is vaguely aware of the Countess asking him if he needs anything and all he can do is shake his head. An image starts to form with the sounds, a long wide room with white walls and gold trim. He wonders if he’s dreaming or hallucinating, but then details come into place, too specific for anything he can think up, and he nearly screams.

He’s remembering. For the first time in years, something he can hold onto. He’s remembering something.

_Somethings sits in hands, cold and heavy and he can’t think what it is, only that it’s too precious to leave behind. And someone shakes his arm. When he turns and looks, it’s a boy, around his age, with wide blue eyes and a straight nose and messy dark blonde hair. He looks almost as scared as he does as he helps him to his feet, his arm around his waist._

“There was a boy,” he says slowly, his voice shaking as the memory plays out in his head, hazy at the edges but clearer than anything that came before. The boys wore a loose-fitting grey shirt, some of the buttons undone, and he struggles for a minute before realising what it means. “A boy who worked in the palace.” The boy took his arm and pulled him over to the wall. He pulled at one of the panels and moved it away, revealing a long, dark tunnel, which released a blast of cold air, fighting against the heat from the fire inside. “He opened a wall.”

_“This is a servant’s passageway. You take it,” he had told him._

_“Who are you?” Charlie had asked instead. The boy shook his head and pushed him into the tunnel as the room shook, causing whatever was in his hand to fall to the ground. Before Charlie could even protest, he was closing the wall, leaving him in the cold, dark tunnel and giving him only one option. To run._

“He got me out,” he says faintly. “He got me out.” He looks up at Clara, whose face is a mixture of concern and complete shock and who is halfway out of her seat. He takes a breath and steadies himself. “There was a boy who worked at the palace. I was in my bedroom, and he opened a door to a tunnel, the servant’s passageway, and got me out.”

Got me out. Not “got him out”. That boy, whoever he was, got him out. Is the reason he is alive.

Clara smiles, brighter than he has seen her smile before, and it looks like someone has lifted a weight from her shoulders. She thanks him, telling him she’s sorry he had to remember that day, but Charlie is only half listening. He has something far bigger on his mind.

He remembered something. Something in the dark, foggy corners of his mind finally came to light. Nothing he could have made up.

He has to be the Prince. He believes it now. He entertained the idea before, back in Rhodia, when he couldn’t sleep. He let himself indulge in the fantasy that he could be, but there isn’t a “could be” any more.

He is the lost Prince of Rhodia. He feels it with all his heart.

                                                                                                *****

Matteusz stumbles out into the foyer, ignoring the looks from other guests who are watching a boy well below their station stumbling out of the parlour, struggling to catch his breath. They might as well not even be there for all he cares. All he can think about is what Charlie just said.

He remembers that day, of course. There’s not a day that goes by where he doesn’t think about what happened. There used to be a time where all he had to do was close his eyes and he’d be right back in that room, gunshots ringing in his ears and flames licking at his skin. The scars on his legs aren’t as visible as they were back then, but they’re still there to serve as a reminder if he ever needs one.

He never told anyone about what he did that day. He told people that he was in the palace when it was stormed, that he hid in the Prince’s bedroom, that soldiers stormed in, but he always left out that one crucial detail. He’s not sure anyone would believe him, or worse, someone would believe him and report him to the police and he’d be questioned to within an inch of his life before being taken into the depths of the woods and shot. That he’d have a target on his back for the rest of his life. The boy who helped Prince Charles get away.

He had been eight years old when he started working at the palace with his father, and Charles was seven. He was too young to be going to work but that was how the world worked back then. Too young to understand why he was being sent out to work and why other children weren’t, and he was too young to understand why his heartbeat picked up whenever the Prince was in the general vicinity, or why he thought he was far prettier than any girl his father would be teasing him about.

He didn’t understand all that until years later.

He remembers sealing up the passage after Charles-Charlie-got in. He still swears he heard his footsteps running down, although that could have just as easily been his imagination. So much was going on that day, the room was crumbling around him and gunshots firing left right centre. The whack on the head he had got from one of the rebels after they broke in didn’t help matters. They didn’t take kindly to his insistence that he didn’t know where Charles had gone, and that he wasn’t in there. They searched the room while Matteusz was held with his hands behind his back and his heart in his throat.

He was convinced that Charles had died. As weeks, then months, then years went past and he never resurfaced once, he became more sure of it. That he’d starved to death or been killed in the riot. Or maybe that he had escaped and fled to another country and was laying low.

But he was sure he was out of his life for good.

“Matteusz!” April comes running out of the parlour, her hair flying behind her, seeming almost giddy. She grabs his arm to steady herself and turns his face towards her, her eyes wide with excitement. “He was perfect. Hell, I would have believed him, and the Countess definitely did!”

“He’s real,” he mutters.

“The Countess invited us to this ballet tonight. She said she’ll arrange for us to meet her there after the show. All we need to do is pay for the tickets and-”

“April,” he cuts her off, grabbing her by the shoulders with his shaking hands. “He’s the real thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

He lets out a sigh as his grip on her tightens. He feels so ready to let it go, but he knows how much it will change everything. Still, she surely deserves to know. As do the others, but they’re inside with Charlie and the Countess talking about God knows what.

“He’s really the Prince,” he admits. April’s mouth drops into an ‘o’ shape, she shakes her head slightly.

“How can you know that?” she asks, whispering. “Because if he is-”

“Because I was the boy who got him out,” he answers. His hands drop from April’s shoulders as her hands fly to her mouth. The words hang in the thick air between them. Matteusz is amazed at how he feels so much better for having confessed, and he knows April will take it to the grave if that’s what he wants, but at the same time, he feels reality slam right into him.

“That means… Charlie’s found his family,” she said, a smile peaking out from behind her hands before her breathing gets faster. “We found the heir to the Rhodian throne!” She looks up at him. “You’ve been flirting with the Rhodian Prince!”

“Flirting?” he repeats. He doesn’t try to play dumb and not know what she’s talking about. He doesn’t want to insult her intelligence like that.

“I’ve seen you,” she tells him. “I see the way you look at him.”  She chews her lip, wincing slightly in regret. “So you…”

“Will walk out of his life forever after this,” he finishes. April shakes her head, furrowing her brow.

“What?”

“Princes do not fall for kitchen boys,” he states. It’s a known fact of life. He’s had a long life of falling for people he can’t have. Charlie isn’t the first but it feels different this time around.

“Matteusz,” April says softly, taking his hand gently. “I think this one already has.”

“You guys!” Charlie squeaks, running out of the parlour with Ram and Tanya behind him. April drops Matteusz’s hand immediately as Matteusz fakes an easy smile. “Clara wants to take us shopping for the ballet tonight! Shopping in London, can you believe it?”

Matteusz wants to memorise every detail of his face, the excited smile and sparkling eyes and laugh and the feeling of his hand slipping into his. Pretend they’re normal people going for a normal day out.

“That’s amazing,” he says, and he lets Charlie pull him out of the hotel.

He knows that he’ll never call him Charles.

                                                                                                                *****

The night rolls around and Matteusz finds himself standing in the hotel lobby in a black suit and white shirt, which oddly, feels stranger than jumping off a moving train does. He looks around nervously at the other guests milling around the hotel, decked out in dresses and suits, dark purples and greens and reds, men in black suits similar to his. Clara had insisted on paying, joking that she did have a fortune that needed spending, and bought the finest clothes she could. The fabric is soft against his skin and yet it still feels awkward. This isn’t what he belongs in.

Ram stands next to him, wearing the same thing, but he pulls it off, mostly with the confidence with which he wears it. Ram could easily fit in here, in the high society world of silk suits and champagne. April chose a blue dress with pink flowers, and the countess even helped her with her hair. It sits in loose waves, held back at one side with pains decorated with silver flowers and her lips and eyes pale pink. She looks beautiful.

Tanya hadn’t taken a shine to any of the dresses they had looked at. The Countess had spotted her looking wistfully at the men’s section while she was pretending to be interested in whatever April was trying on and took the hint. She had whispered in the ear of an attendant, who shared a knowing smile with her and came back with an array of small, different coloured suits. In all the time Matteusz had known Tanya, he’d never seen her so happy as she was when she was trying on every colour they had to offer before settling on a dark red jacket and trousers and white fitted shirt, her hair swept into a bun.

“They may hurry up,” Ram sighs. “At this rate we’ll miss the start of the show.”

“Like you’re interested in ballet,” Matteusz mumbles in reply.

“She’s prepping him,” April says. “It’s not every day you meet your grandmother.”

“Or become a Prince,” Ram adds. Matteusz turns around and looks at the painting on the wall, pretending to care about it, when all he is thinking about is the Charlie. He’s becoming a Prince now. For all he knows, this could be the last time they see each other. Their two worlds don’t mix. He supposes he should just be glad that he never got too attached to him. “Hey, they’re here now.”

Matteusz swears his heart stops when he turns around. Charlie approaches them, wearing a soft royal blue suit and trousers and white shirt, small diamonds sparking in the cuffs. He’s not sure why he’s surprised; he saw Charlie pick it out and put the jacket on other his clothes. But there’s something about the way he wears it; it’s not Ram’s confidence, it’s something else entirely. It’s the hope in his smile, it’s the way his hair is pushed just out of his eyes.

So much for not getting too attached.

“Do I look okay?” Charlie asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You look… stunning,” Matteusz whispers since he can’t find any other word for it. Stunning through and through. He feels his heart beating faster and louder with every breath. “It looked, it looked nice in the shop, but now it looks… Amazing, you look amazing.”  Ram looks like he could blend in here, Charlie shines here. Like there was no revolution and he lived in palaces all his life.

“Thanks,” Charlie says nervously. “You look great too.”

“Not like a Prince,” he replies, tugging on his jacket. “But thank you.”

“We should get going,” the Countess tells them. “Trust me, the crowds at these types of things are awful.” Matteusz looks form her to Charlie, an idea flickering in the back of his mind. He’s not done playing the Prince’s escort yet.

He offers Charlie his arm and he takes it, laughing.

“Do me a favour,” Charlie whispers when they walk out of the hotel. “Don’t let go until we’re sitting down.”

“I won’t,” he replies. If he had it his way, he’d never let him go.

                                                                                                ******

Tanya prides herself on her brain. She’s always been ahead of her peers and uses it shamelessly to her advantage. After she lost her parents, she had to work even harder, get even smarter. Not just learning facts and figures and read faster than anyone else but learn sleight of hand and to lie and to slip in and out of crowds like she was never there. She was the mastermind behind this entire plan. All in all, she liked to think herself clever above everything else. And yet here she is, cursing herself for being so stupid.

She had planned for every single eventuality. Avoiding guards, saving money, getting out of Rhodia, teaching Charlie to leave behind the street rat and step into the shoes of the Prince. Planned out every detail, except for romance.

“This is entirely your fault,” Ram whispers to her as they watch Matteusz and Charlie stare at each other in that awestruck way she’d never truly understand. She’s known Matteusz for a while and has never seen his eyes shine the way they do when he’s with him.

“It’s all our faults,” April corrects him. There’s so much sadness in her eyes as she watches them.

“We’re the idiots who let them dance,” Tanya admits sadly.

                                                                                                *****

“When are you coming back?” Kat asks, clad in her blue pyjamas. She sits on Quill’s lap as she brushes her hair and puts it in little plaits.

“After you’re in bed,” she tells her, turning her around. “You’ll be good for me?” She nods, brown eyes sparkling. “Good.” She kisses her nose, not even minding the presence of her comrades waiting for her. They know better than to judge her. “Now, my darling, this is Jenkins. He’s going to take care of you until I get back.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” Jenkins protests. She rolls her eyes and looks over at him. He should know better than to challenge her, never mind challenge her in front of her own daughter, the child he is looking after for tonight.

“Stay here, sweetheart,” she tells Kat, shifting her off her lap and onto the bed. Kat rolls on to her belly and picks up her picture book, flipping through it without stopping to read it. Quill gets up and looks at Jenkins, narrowing her eyes. She takes great delight in watching him squirm. “Jenkins, a word?”

She leads him into the bathroom, closing the door tightly behind her and letting out a breath. She absolutely does not need this now.

“Lieutenant,” he begins, far too much defiance in his voice for her liking. She raises her eyebrows, silently reminding him of their respective positions. He nods and steps back slightly. “With all due respect, I did not join the army to babysit. And I certainly did not come across the continent for it. I came here to serve my country.”

“And that’s exactly what you’re doing,” she reminds him. “You’re taking care of my daughter so that we can serve the country and track him down. Or would you rather I take my daughter with me on this and we can take turns looking after her?”

“Of course not, Lieutenant,” he says, looking down. She takes a step towards him.

“Do you have children, Jenkins?” she asks coolly. He shakes his head. Of course not, she thinks. He’s barely more than a child himself. “Trust me, I wouldn’t trust Kat with just anyone.”

“Really?” he asks, his face brightening.

“Of course no,” she continues. “I’m trusting you with my daughter, try not to mess it up. And if she asks any questions about what I’m doing, lie about it.” Jenkins nods in understanding.

“She doesn’t need to know,” he answers. “Not yet anyway.” He flashes a nervous smile. “I think when the time comes, she’ll be proud of you.”

“You what?” she asks.

“Knowing her mother is the one who took down Prince Charles.”

“We don’t know if he is the Prince,” she reminds him, but she doesn’t dismiss his words.

Since Kat was born, Quill has wanted to make her proud. Her father had been a noble, brave man, her mother a pillar of strength. She had looked up to them, she wants Kat to do the same for her. She wants to set a good example for her and so far she’s been convinced that’s what she’s been doing.

But something changed. Somewhere in between seeing this little group of con artists and meeting this Charlie and getting her orders to put a bullet in his brain, something began changing her mind. Was her father thinking how proud she’d be when he stormed the castle and put a gun at a child’s back? Was he proud of himself? What use is Kat being proud of her if she isn’t sure what she is doing is the right thing? It has to be.

She remembers that she’s not just doing it for Kat. She’s in this for her father. Finishing what he started. Doing what he couldn’t. That’s what he fought for, what he said he’d die for.

Except according to her mother, he died of shame. For years she had dismissed the idea, claiming he had nothing to be ashamed of. He had been doing good. Even if he was spilling blood while doing it, it was all for a greater goal, the good of the country. Creating a better, fairer Rhodia. For years, she had thought her mother was being sentimental, living in some sweet fantasy and now she’s less sure.

She steps out of the bathroom and looks at Kat, who is still lost in a picture book. She wonders what will happen when she’s dead. Will Kat be in her position, asking herself the same questions? When she dies, will his face be the last thing she sees, a bullet hole in his skull?

Kat looks up at her and ditches the book, running over to her and grabbing her legs. Quill puts her own thoughts aside and lifts her up, letting her wrap her little legs around her waist. With her sitting on her waist, Quill reminds herself why she’s even here. She remembers the way she grew up, times when her family was living on food stamps and not having breakfast and worrying if she’d even make it to university in the first place. Even after her father’s promotion and their boost in status, she would be walking home seeing people living in boxes and begging for food, all the while the King raised taxes for the military and funding his parties. And spoiling his little brat. Kat isn’t growing up like that. She is fighting every day to make sure of that. Kat needs a future where she doesn’t feel helpless.

And getting rid of any trace of the royal family is the only way to secure that future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey... so remember last chapter when I said Charlie was going to meet his grandma? With the way things worked out it just didn't happen. So that's NEXT chapter. Hope the Big Reveal TM was enough to make up for that.


	9. Chapter 9

Charlie sees her right away. Anyone would, of course, even from their seats on the other side of the theatre. With her sweeping purple gown and diamond studded tiara she still wears even now that her kingdom is gone, the Queen Mother isn’t one you’d skip over easily. He watches as she, along with Countess Oswald, takes her seat in the upper box, seats which probably cost more than their entire journey from Rhodia to where they are sitting right now cost them. She doesn’t notice him, of course she doesn’t, but he can’t take his eyes off her. Far away as he is, he tries to find some resemblance in her. Tries to catch a good glance of her eyes or chin, searching for some trace of himself in her. He still thinks he’s dreaming, and he’ll wake up back in the orphanage to work a shift at the factory, briefly wondering who they’ve given that job to now that he’s gone.

He can’t sit still, even though his fidgeting has already drawn dirty looks from other people who came to view the ballet. He can’t even focus on the dancers, whirling around the stage in their dazzling costumes. Despite how wonderful the theatre must be, and that it’s the first real, fully furnished working theatre he can remember seeing, he can’t appreciate it. Everything else seems so trivial and useless when his whole future could be sitting up there. He calms himself down just enough to check his watch. Eight thirty. Everything he’s ever wanted is so near now. Just an hour and a half away.

                                                                                                ******

Alia’s old heart nearly gives out when she sees him; she almost wonders if this is it, and she is simply seeing her Charles one last time before she goes. Instead, she finds herself still breathing, her heart still beating, albeit far rapidly than it has been in years. Her hand trembles as she holds her binoculars, making everything go out of focus except that one boy.

“Your Majesty?” Clara asks beside her, taking her shaking arm. “Your Majesty what is it? Are you too cold? I have your fur wrap here in case you need it.”

“No, Clara,” she says. Even if she were cold, she’d never admit to it. Never let it be said that the Queen Mother of Rhodia is susceptible to cold. “I simply thought I saw someone I might have known.” Clara looks in her direction. She’s smiling and she thinks she’s doing it discreetly. Her lady in waiting is many wonderful things, but discreet has never been one of them. She would ask what she finds so amusing, if she wasn’t finding it hard to breathe herself.

The boy pushes his blonde hair out of his eyes, a gesture so similar to Charles it pains her. He mutters something to the boy sitting next to him, she assumes it’s his lover, for their knees touch, and he takes his hand gently. She can even see a faint blush on the boy’s cheeks. Either they are lovers or he wishes they were. Despite her better judgement, she adjusts her binoculars and gets a better look.

It takes everything in her not to gasp; the chin is almost an exact replica of her daughter in law’s. From what she can see, the nose is the double of her son’s. The suit he wears, the blue, that shade, it’s exactly what she had always thought Charles looked best in. When she sees him clasping his hands between his knees and scratching at the back of his hand with his thumb, she almost wails; Charles used to do the same when he was afraid. She wishes he’d look up at her and she could finally put this silly fantasy to rest.

“Stop it,” she mutters to herself, not realising for a moment that she had spoken aloud, thankful she was quiet enough and Clara was distracted by champagne and Lady Ashildr to notice. Her head knows she should stop believing that she’ll ever find him, but she finds that the heart is not so easily persuaded.

                                                                                     ******

Quill’s fingers trace over the bulge of the gun in her pocket, a vile taste sitting in her mouth as she sits in the gods. The seats are hardly practical for watching the show as a gold rail obscures the view of the stage, but for scouting the audience, it works quite well, even if people behind her hiss at her to sit down.

She spies him just before the lights go down, sitting in a box of his own near the front. Along with his friends from Rhodia, the little group of street rats. Decked out in all their finery, they hardly look like the children they are. He certainly looks older than he is. Even the youngest one, the one who looks like her daughter, looks older than she is, dressed in a red suit.

Her stomach clenches when she sees her, tiny as she looks down there. Kat herself is hopefully asleep by now, likely star fished across the bed, maybe drooling. Hopefully having gone to the toilet before she slept. Out of sight, but never out of mind, not since she was born and now that this girl is here, she can’t even put her aside for a moment.

But when she looks at the would-be Prince, something else takes over her mind. No, he doesn’t look like a child, but he also doesn’t look like a commoner. He looks like a Prince. Like someone who takes and takes from his people and never gives them anything else. Someone who sends good, hard working people off to fight his wars for him because he could never get his dainty little hands dirty. Someone who can come strolling back into Rhodia at a moment’s notice to tear down everything that her father died for.

With a slight snarl on her face, she lets her hand drift back to the gun. Times have to change, and the world change with it. The whole world, not just the Republic of Rhodia. And as her father knew well, sentimentality has no place in revolutions.

                                                                                                *****

All the way through the show, Charlie sits so rigidly it’s unnatural. After the lights go down, he barely moves except for his thumb, which continuously picks and scratches at the back of his hand until it’s red. If he doesn’t stop, he might draw blood.

“Hey,” Matteusz whispers, gently prying his hands apart and holding onto it himself. His hands are freezing, his fingers like icicles, but he doesn’t complain. He just hopes he can warm him up. He supposes it would never do to meet your long lost grandmother with hands like ice. Charlie manages a small smile, but Matteusz isn’t sure if it’s genuine or just a reflex. He just keeps his eyes trained on the Queen Mother’s box.

If he’s honest, Matteusz is having trouble keeping his own nerve. When they started planning this so long ago, in an abandoned theatre when they were loving day to day, wondering how they’d scam their next meal, he had half thought (or hoped) that this was all a game they would get tired of when they realised no one could impersonate the Prince and they’d move onto another, less frightening con.

Well, technically, no one is impersonating the Prince, because he’s right here.

He can still hardly believe it. The little boy he helped through a servant’s passageway is sitting right beside him. The boy he could never take his eyes off when he was eight was now making his heart flutter at eighteen.

He’s always been religious. He’s not sure if it’s because of his upbringing or something inside him, but he’s held onto his faith. The regime back in Rhodia would hate him if they knew, a gay practicing Catholic, and he dreads to think what might have happened to him, but he’s become good at hiding his faith and heart. His grandmother back in Poland had been the most faithful person he had known. She had given him rosary beads every birthday since he was five, read him stories from the Bible, made him pray every night. He remembers her saying to him that God had a plan for everyone, big or small.

Maybe this was his. Maybe he and Charlie were meant to find each other. Maybe God sent him to Charlie to protect him, to save him from the rebels back them and now to hand him over to his grandmother. Give him back everything he lost, home, love, family. Maybe God’s plan was always meant to end like this, with Matteusz helping Charlie find his way back.

As far as grand purposes go, it’s not so bad. He just wonders if falling for him was meant to happen too.

                                                                                                *****

The show ends sooner than they thought, but Matteusz also wouldn’t have minded if they added on an extra hour or five. As they wait outside in the hall for Countess Oswald, his breath gets shorter and shorter, his hands sweating. Just less than an hour, surely until it’s finally over. April is visibly resisting the temptation to chew on her perfectly manicured nails, Tanya presses her fist into her hand. But no matter how nervous he, or any of them, are Charlie is far worse. He stands pressed against the wall, his face as white as the wall itself, his eyes far away from here. A few kind looking women give him concerned looks, but none stop to ask if he’s all right, too busy pushing past each other to get out to their cars and back to their homes.

The Countess emerges from the crowd, wringing her white-gloved hands together. Her concern only grows when her eyes land on Charlie. He doesn’t look like he did at the hotel. Back then, he had looked radiant and confident. Born to step into the high-class world of ballet visits and soft suits. Now he looks like he’s shrunk to half his original size and is in danger of throwing up.

The Countess steps in front of him and takes his shoulders, bringing him back to reality slightly. His hand twitches to grab her arm but he stops himself at the last minute. He’s not royalty yet.

“Are you ready?” she asks him gently.

“As I’ll ever be,” he confesses, his voice shaking. He gives her a half-hearted smile.

“Follow me,” she orders. She leads them, taking Charlie by the shoulder, down the hallway and up a flight of carpeted steps, a gold railing running along the wall. They arrive in a smaller hallway, dark wooden walls instead of the white painted ones along the rest of the theatre, a matching side table with a jug of water and glasses on it and a red velvet door with “Box 2” written on a gold plaque.

“That’s her?” Charlie whispers, his voice high. “She’s in there?”

“Yes,” the Countess answers, looking concerned. “Here, let me get you some water.” She pours him a glass and he accepts it with trembling hands. “I think I must tell you to expect that she might… I don’t want to get your hopes up, young man.” He nods, handing her back the glass. He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, the muttering of ‘one, two, three, four, five’ barely audible.

The transformation is amazing. The colour seems to rush back into his cheeks, he holds himself with more composure, his chin higher, his shoulders straight. When he turns back to the rest of them, even his eyes seem to be brighter, the same shade of blue and bright shine to them that was said to be a royal heirloom, passed down through the generations. He nods firmly, to himself more than anyone else.

Then he smiles at them, and underneath it all, he’s still the same boy he met in the theatre and stood on top of an apartment tower with.

“I survived a palace being stormed,” he jokes. “How bad could this be?”

“That’s the spirit,” Tanya says, but she’s biting her lip enough to draw blood.

“Good luck,” April adds, slipping her hand into Ram’s.

“We can celebrate in your grandma’s apartment later,” Ram says, smirking.

Charlie laughs and looks at Matteusz, his eyes wide.

“Matteusz?” he asks softly. Matteusz moves over to him, careful not to mess any part of his hair or suit.

“You can do this,” he tells him. “I know you can. It’s no one else but you.” He looks at the Countess over his shoulder. “You will introduce Prince Charles of Rhodia.”

The Countess nods at him with a smile and opens the door slightly. Charlie’s hand shoots out and grabs his. His face is utterly composed and cool, but his hand is shaking like a leaf. Like he expelled all of his fear into that one hand. Hopefully, the Queen Mother won’t ask to shake his hand.

“Your Majesty, you have a visitor,” the Countess says. She turns back to Charlie and motions for him to come in.

He doesn’t look back at them as his hand slips out of Matteusz’s and he follows Clara into the room, the door clicking shut behind them.

“Jesus Christ,” Tanya says, leaning against the wall like a ragdoll. She claps her hands over her mouth, hoping the Queen Mother didn’t hear her.

“I can’t be here,” Ram says. “This is way too much for me. I wonder if the bar’s still open.” He goes down the hall and April sighs and follows, but not before sharing a quick look with Matteusz. She’s the only one other than him who knows the truth about Charlie. She hasn’t told a soul, but she still knows.

“I need the loo,” Tanya says. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Matteusz nods and watches her go, leaving him alone in the hallway. Apart from them, the theatre is almost completely empty, there’s probably more staff than customers in the building. In their part anyway, it’s completely quiet. Far too quiet.

He rushes to the door and presses against it, listening intently over the sound of his frantic heart, straining his ears. Nothing but silence. That could only be bad, couldn’t it? Or he should assume it’s good.

The whole plan is fool proof, really. He could recite the history of Rhodia’s royal family in his sleep. And even if he couldn’t, he is the real thing. He has an airtight cover story for getting out of the palace. The odds are entirely in their favour.

Who is he kidding, nothing is fool proof! He knocks on the wooden table quickly. He leans against the door, pressing his hands to his mouth.

At the end of the day, they’re all getting what they wanted. Himself, Ram, April and Tanya are getting rich. Charlie is getting a family. And they’re all free now, for better or worse. Tanya had said long ago that they were building a fairy-tale, but he hadn’t realised it would be in part his own fairy-tale. One with a spin.

They can’t fail.

He wonders insanely if his and Charlie’s paths will ever cross again, like they did when he was nine and Matteusz was ten. Meeting him once was a privilege, but twice seems more like fate. He had thought it was goodbye after tonight, but he also thought that eight years ago. They never know what the world will throw at them after this. Maybe this is just wishful thinking, or maybe he’ll end up staying around London and they’ll wave at each other from opposite side of the river.

He should be happy. He should be happy that he’s free and soon to be rich, happy that Charlie is where he belongs. But he isn’t, despite everything. Con man and Prince get their wish, and fairy-tale comes true. But there was one thing he didn’t count on.

With everything to win, there’s just one thing he loses. Him.

The door opens suddenly and he nearly falls to the floor. He must have been thinking for longer than he thought. Or the Queen Mother made up her mind about Charlie quickly. Charlie stumbles out slowly, his face pale, his mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out except for slight, small squeaks.

“Charlie?” he asks softly, moving towards him. His eyes are shining with unshed tears. Matteusz goes to take his shoulder, for he looks like he’s about to collapse, but Charlie flinches away from him, still looking at the floor.

“She wouldn’t even look at me,” he says flatly. “She said, ‘Tell this imposter I know his kind, Clara. He wants money and will break an old woman’s heart to get it’.”

“No.” They were too late, it seemed. He should have known, they should have known, that dozens of other people would have had the same idea they did and gotten to London before them.

But none of those people had the real Prince. Or the boy who helped him escape.

“Look, I wasn’t going to tell you this,” he begins. “But-”

“That I was a pawn in a scheme of yours?” he asks, his voice trembling. He gasps and the tears run down his face. “You made me believe I could be someone I wasn’t? That you trained me to trick an old woman so you could collect the reward money?”

Matteusz feels his world crumble around him. He thought he felt it eight years ago, when the sky was red and the streets were littered with bodies, but that doesn’t come close to this. Maybe because he couldn’t understand what was happening back then, or maybe it’s not just sadness and grief and confusion he’s feeling this time. Those are all there too, stirring around in his heart like a poisonous cocktail, but guilt is the main ingredient here. Blooming out and flooding his chest. At least if they had taken any old street rat looking for fame and fortune, they’d have only broken one heart. But he’s broken two.

“Matteusz?” Charlie asks. “Is it true? Is what she said about you true?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, Charlie doesn’t react. It seems that even the tears on his face freeze in place. He keeps his eyes on Matteusz, heartbroken and confused and betrayed. Then his face twists into a snarl and despite how upset he is, and how much smaller he is than Matteusz, he fears he’s going to attack him right there and then.

“Charlie, please,” he begs. “It’s different this time, you’re different, because you’re-”

“Stop!” he shouts. There’s so much force in his voice that Matteusz has to step back from him. “When I met you, Matteusz, I was cold and hungry and scared, but I was always honest with you! I trusted you, I gave you my diamond…” He covers his mouth for a moment, his shoulders shaking. “I told you things I never told anyone else! I thought you were-I thought we were… I was wrong.” He pushes past him quickly, squeezing his eyes shut.

“No, Charlie, please!” He grabs his hand just as he passes him, his mind racing. “Charlie, just listen-”

“I’m done listening to you!” he exclaims, ripping his hand from Matteusz’s hand. “I travelled across a continent with you. I let you convince me that I could be something, I belonged somewhere when really… I’m nothing. I’m no one.”

 _You’re a Prince_ , he thinks, _you’re a survivor, you’re brave, you’re brilliant_. But he’s too scared to say it.

“Thank you for reminding me of that, Matteusz,” he spits at him, and he turns and runs down the hall. Matteusz stands and watches numbly as he gets smaller and smaller, disappearing down the stairs, his footsteps fading until he’s disappeared entirely.

This was all his fault. He should have stood up to Tanya more, should have told Charlie the truth about then last night, should have done something to stop this. Or should have never agreed to this in the first place.

“Is he gone?” a voice asks, older, slower, with the poise and grace of someone raised in nobility. A Queen dignity even though she doesn’t have a Kingdom any more.

When he turns around, Countess Oswald is standing with an apologetic expression behind the Queen Mother. Despite his guilt and shame, Matteusz is mesmerised by her. Even when he worked in the palace, he never laid eyes on her. Despite her old age, she carries herself well, her head held high without a second thought, her silver hair spun back into a low bun, her black evening gown embroidered with small black diamonds, trailing up the long skirt in an elegant spiral, silver and black, heavy looking jewels around her neck and dangling from her ears. But even underneath the make-up, she looks tired, and angry. The tight grip on her black cane confirmed this.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, bowing low, remembering every etiquette his father drilled into him. He has one last chance to fix the mess he’s created.

“Who is this?” she asks.

“Charlie does not want your money,” he explains, seeing there is no time for formalities. At Charlie’s name, the Queen Mother glares daggers and his stomach clenches. It’s ironic that he’s jumped off a train while being chased by gunmen, but he’s more afraid of one old woman. “I take full responsibility for bringing him to London.”

“Then you’re the one who wished to con me out of the reward money,” she says dryly.

“I believe with all my heart he is the Crown Prince,” he insists. He takes a step closer to her, but when Countess Oswald raises her eyebrows he shuffles backwards. “Let me explain, my name is Matteusz Andrzjewski, I used to work at the palace-”

“Well,” she scoffs, an empty smile on her face. “That’s one I haven’t heard before, I must say.” She moves past him, scowling as she does so, while a nervous Countess Oswald follows. “I will not stay to listen to this any longer. Have you nothing better to do than to torture an old woman?”

Matteusz feels something inside him snap. The sight of her walking away, while her one surviving relative sits thinking he’s a nobody, flips a switch inside him. Everything else he felt is gone. Now he’s just angry. At her, the rebels who did this, Rhodia itself.

“Charlie only wants what is rightfully his!” he exclaims. “Your recognition and your loving embrace!”

As she keeps walking away from him, he feels as though he loses all control of his body. Rationality and reason abandon him, and before he can even think, he runs towards her and stamps his foot on the train of her gown, stopping her in her tracks.

When she turns back to him, her expression utterly horrified, her mouth hanging open, there’s a small spark of triumph in him. Soon drowned out by the dawning realisation of what he’s just done.

“Shit,” he mutters. He lifts his foot off her dress, but he’s come too far now. He has nothing to lose. “Try to imagine his life since his parents, friends, everyone he has ever known was murdered-”

“I do not need reminding what happened to my own family!” she snaps back. “I lost everything I loved that day.”

“So did he,” he reminds her. “Charlie survived for a reason, to heal what happened those years ago. Rhodia is a wound that will never heal!” In her face, he sees Charlie, the stony glare, the anger blazing the eyes, the set of her jaw. Like grandmother, like grandson, it seemed.

“That is no longer my concern,” she hisses. “Rhodia has damned itself for what it has done!”

“You’re tiring her!” Countess Oswald objects. He knows that, he sees the strain in her old hands, but he’s past caring. She can be tired all she wants. But he hopes she feels ashamed too.

“I hope that God will judge you harshly for what you’ve done tonight,” he tells her firmly. “History already has.”

He doesn’t bow before leaving. He knows he turns his back to her, but he can’t find it in him to care. His words hang in the air between them. Selfishly, he hopes that if Charlie never forgives him, she never forgives herself.

                                                                                                ******

Charlie’s friends-or former friends, if they ever were his friends to begin with-stand lined up against the wall of their hotel room. The room is beautiful-deep red walls with a white trim, soft red carpeting, a crystal chandelier, a dark oak wardrobe with gold handles. The door of said wardrobe is open now, Charlie pulling his clothes out of it and stuffing them into his bag. He’s leaving. He hasn’t decided if he’s leaving London but he is certainly leaving them.

“It was my life you played with,” he tells them. “Making me think I could be someone I never was. Letting me think I could have people who cared for me.” He hastily wipes the tears from his cheeks but they keep coming, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. “Making me think I had friends.”

“Charlie,” April says softly. “Look, we are your friends-”

“No, you’re not,” he replies bitterly. “If you were my friends you never would have set me up like this. You never would have lied to me. I don’t have much experience with friends, but I know they don’t lie to each other, they don’t treat each other like chess pieces.” He looks down at the nightstand beside his bed, seeing a small teddy with impossibly soft pale brown fur and a blue bow. It’s sweet but he’s also never seen it before. “What is this?”

“I bought it for you,” Matteusz confesses. “When we were in Oxford Street, I know you were looking at them-”

“I don’t want it.” He throws the bear across the room and it hits the wall, falling pathetically to the floor. Matteusz looks like he’s on the verge of tears himself, and Charlie is both sad to see it and happy. He should be upset. They all should be.

Of course, he partially blames himself for falling for it. Falling for the promise of a new life and a family and a chance in London, falling for jokes and smiles and friendly hugs and pretty eyes. He makes a silent promise never to fall for anyone so easily again.

“I admired the way you were, Matteusz,” he admits, turning back to his packing. “Despite where you came from, you were proud. And you taught me to be the same. And the whole time you were tricking me!” He closes the suitcase, shutting his eyes tightly against the flow of tears, taking in a gulp of air. He shakes his head wildly. “I don’t care anymore. Save it for your next Prince Charles-”

He turns suddenly, ready to tell their sad apologetic faces (fake, he knows they must be fake) where exactly they can shove their excuses, but all four of them are gone, and they even took Dash with them. In their place is the Queen Mother, frowning at him in his state, leaning on her cane.

“Your Majesty,” he says quickly, bowing.

“I think history demands we play this game to the end,” she explains.

“Please, sit.”

“There’s no need.” She stalks over to him, looking him up and down. He only got a seconds long glimpse of her back at the theatre before she had him thrown out. She is barely taller than him but he feels as though she’s towering over him in her evening gown, her eyes cold and hard as ice, but the same colour as his. Despite the wrinkles in her face and the tremble of her hand, he doesn’t think she might be soft. Part of him wonders if she really needs the cane to walk or if she plans on beating him with it. “I will be brief, who are you?”

“I think I am the sole son and heir of-”

“I didn’t ask for a title!” she snaps. “It’s in any history book along the Thames, anyone can read it! I asked who you are?”

“I… I don’t know,” he confesses. “I’m no one.” He wanders over to the small sofa and sits down on it. “I’ve spent my whole life being a no one wondering if-”

“How dare you sit without my permission!” He jumps up suddenly. The Queen Mother waves her hand dismissively. “All right sit you have my permission. And in that case…” She comes to the sofa, wiping away imaginary dirt. “I will also sit.”

“What made you like this?” he asks her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My grand mother was the loveliest, kindest woman I’d ever known,” he explains. She scoffs, but he continues, bits and pieces, fragments of memories coming back to him. “She bought me presents every time she went away, she never got cross with me, she always smelt like orange blossom when she hugged me-”

“It’s a common enough scent!”

“Not hers,” he replies. “Not yours. One of the Dukes had it made specially for you, ordered the blossom all the way from Sicily.” He grabs the edge of the sofa. “And she was never this cruel. She never snapped.”

“That was before they murdered everyone I loved,” she says. Her voice is steady, but her hand curls into a fist. “Do you understand what that’s like, to not even be there when it happens? Hearing over a letter that my son, his wife, his child, all gone and for what? The good of Rhodia?”

“Why did you come here?” he asks, desperate to change the subject. He can’t think of Rhodia as it is right now.

“Your young man said you weren’t part of his plan. He thinks you may well be my grandson. He says you’ve come to believe it yourself.”

“I believe it with all my heart,” he agrees. “But I can’t be him unless you recognise me.”

“You can’t be anyone unless you first recognise yourself,” she tells him. She studies his face and he tries to keep as still as possible. “Who was my favourite lady in waiting?”

“You didn’t have one, you kept dismissing them,” he says.

“It was a trick question, you’re clever, I’ll give you that,” she sighs. She narrows her eyes as she peers at him, her cold hand pushing his hair away from his face, tilting his chin up. “I’m trying to see the resemblance. I don’t trust my old eyes.”

“Didn’t Father tell you to get spectacles?” he asks without thinking, recalling what looked like a taller, sturdier version of himself laughing at a happier, freer-looking Alia as they reclined on soft blue chairs. Memories were like that since the other day, coming without warning, just tangible and unique enough for him to believe they were real. He’d remember sights and sounds and smells, but feelings more than anything. He turns to see her with her mouth open in shock and covers his hand with his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

Except now the memory goes on, moving forward in his mind, not just a blurry snapshot. His father warning his mother that her eyesight won’t last forever, and her replying sharply that neither will his reign. Silence settling uncomfortably into the room while he watches from the door, holding a colouring book in his hand. His mother noticing him and calling him in. Him showing the picture off to his grandmother, who pulls him onto her knee and kisses his cheek. Her hair is loose, her laugh is easy. His mother laughs too and hands him a cupcake.

“What was your mother’s full title?” she asks him, bringing him back to the present.

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “I never knew, she was just Mama to me.” All he knows is that the title was far too long to remember. As strict as his mother could be with him, she was never his Queen. Now she’s no one’s Queen. His vision blurs as hot tears prick his eyes and he forgets that she is even beside him as sobs wreck through his body.

“You all cry at some point,” she remarks without an ounce of sympathy. “Your tears will get you nowhere.”

“If you don’t want me to be him you can leave!” he snaps without thinking. “Why don’t you want me to be him?”

“Eight years,” she replies. He thought she’d be angry at him for asking, but she just seems defeated. “I have had eight years of false hope. Every morning I’d look at the young boys and then the young men coming through the door. I’d wake up believing today was the day I’d finally find my Charles again. Do you have any idea what it means to lose that? To be tricked every day like a common street rat? I was a Queen; my family was respected. People bowed as we passed. Now people play the part of my grandson for fun, to trick me out of my love.” She dabs at her eyes with a delicate handkerchief. “I know they want my money and I can’t make myself care anymore. But they will take my love and I will never let anyone fool me into giving that away.” She buries her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. “I want this fearful journey to be over. One way or another!”

“Do you remember the last time you saw Charles?” Charlie asks.

“I didn’t know it would be the last time,” she replies. “We never know which goodbye is the last. How can we? When I left, I thought-”

“You’d see him again,” he finishes. “See me again. You promised.” He gets up from the sofa and runs over to the dresser. The jewellery box is still there. Together In London written on the side. Just like she promised. “You gave me a music box. So that when you were away I could listen to our song.” He winds up the box as he comes over to her. She eyes the box as though it’s a wild animal. _Eleven, twelve, thirteen._ He lifts the lid, revealing the boy and woman dancing inside. Long ago, on a street in Rhodia, standing with Matteusz he had opened the box and heard the melody before, but there were no words to put to it. Now he can. “On the wind, cross the sea, hear this song and remember….”

“Soon you’ll be home with me,” Alia sings gently, her voice shaking.

“Once upon a December,” he finishes. He looks up at Alia. Tears run down her wrinkled face, her mouth opening and closing, unsure if she is happy or sad. “I said I wouldn’t stop missing you. You said you’d take me to London with you.”

“I wish I’d taken you with me when I left,” she confesses. “We could have avoided all this heartache. You could have stayed safe here.” Her hand reaches out to him but recoils away again. “What took you so long?”

“I’m here now, Nana,” he pleads, taking her hand. “I forgot everything. I forgot myself and you and Mama and Father, but I remember it all now. Please, I’m here with you now, doesn’t that count?”

“You’re too late,” she protests, shaking her head. “You’re too late. I promised myself no more.”

“It’s never too late to come home, Nana,” he tells her. She caresses his cheek, gently, oh so gently. Touching his cheekbone with the tip of her finger, testing if he’s real. “Please, please don’t leave me alone. Please don’t shut me out, please.”

“Oh… Charles.” She takes his face with both hands and kisses his forehead. “Oh my beautiful Charles.” He’s pulled against her chest and she wraps his arms tightly around him, running her hands up and down his back. He does the same, burying his face in her shoulder, clinging to her like she might disappear on him again. He allows himself to cry, wetting the shoulder of her gown with his tears, but they’re happy tears this time, as he relaxes into her. “My little Prince.” He breathes in the familiar scent on her clothes and skin. Orange blossom, just like she used to be. If this is a dream, he hopes he never has to wake up. But she kisses his cheek and he knows it isn’t. This is real. He’s home. He’s not alone and he never will be again. He’s really, truly home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Charlie's found his family!  
> But gasp-it's not completed! Dun dun DUUNNNNN  
> Anyway, comments and kudos are always appreciated <3


	10. Chapter 10

“We had him right in front of us!” Antony, one of the soldiers sent to London with Quill, whispers harshly as they briskly head back to their hotel. It’s nowhere near as lavish as the ones they pass on the streets, but the budget didn’t stretch to four star accommodation. “We had him right in front of us and you told us to wait.”

“Yes I did,” she says sharply, not looking at him, not even slowing down. “Patience is the key to victory.”

“Did your father teach you that?” he asks, his tone flippant. She stops in her tracks, the question hitting her face-on, seeming to freeze every muscle in her body. She grabs Antony by the shoulder and turns to make him look at her. Rather than pin him against the wall behind them, she keeps him there with his back to the road, where he can hear the sound of passing cars. Regret immediately flares into his eyes, and the corners of her mouth twitch up into a smile, despite the unsettling nausea in her stomach and the way her hands shake even as she grips the front of his coat.

“Maybe,” she says, deciding it to be the best reply. She lets him go, secure in the knowledge that he won’t mention her family again. Her father is legendary among former revolutionaries and especially in the police and army. Her, not so much. She’s heard whispers in the cafeteria; she is where she is only because of her father’s act, sympathetic officers and admirers in office boosting her up. She won’t be mocked, certainly not by someone beneath her. She turns and keeps walking, Antony scurrying just behind her. “Rachel is staking out the Queen’s apartments. Once we know her next move, we can make ours. If she doesn’t claim this boy as her heir, then we take him and his friends back to Rhodia. Let the justice system deal with them. And if she does-” She feels the gun in her pocket. She knows it’s a dead, inanimate object, cold hard metal, yet she swears it’s burning in her pocket. “You know what we do if she does.” She suppresses a shiver. “What happens to him if she does.”

“Will you?” Antony asks after a long silent pause. She glares back at him, hoping to subdue him without having to say anything. He doesn’t meet her gaze, but shrugs.

“Humour me,” he says quietly.

“I have to,” she replies, knowing how she’s not answering his question. “Otherwise we have a legitimate heir running wild in the world.” She repeats Dorothea’s rhetoric from that day in her office, finding herself almost mimicking her tone. “A threat to the stability of the Republic.”

“Is he?” Antony asks. Quill rolls her eyes. Bravery and boldness are some of the best traits a solider can have, and she’d never condemn someone for showing them, but she wishes that in this particular moment, Antony had less of it.

“I should have pushed you into that road when I had the chance,” she mutters, barely audible enough for herself to hear, let alone him. She turns around to face him, keeping walking backwards. “Of course he remains a threat, Antony,” she explains. “You think he won’t return to reclaim his crown? Or the fact that he’s alive and thriving won’t inspire some loyalists back home?” Antony nods, not saying another word until they get back to the hotel.

The lobby is almost completely deserted when they get back in, one man dozing on one of the leather couches, his coat pulled over him like a blanket. Quill shakes her head at the sight before stepping into the lift to the third floor, riding up in an uncomfortable silence. She looks at Antony out of the corner of her eye. She almost feels guilt, and she hates it.

When she enters her room, the only source of light is the little bedside lamp. Jenkins sits next to the wall, initially reading, but jumps up when he sees her. She barely pays him any attention. Her focus is on the little girl starfished out on one of the bed, her mouth open and snoring softly. Aware of Jenkins and Antony’s presences, she crosses over to the bed, resting her hand on her cheek just for a moment. Kat murmurs and snuggles into her pillow, but she doesn’t wake. Quill lets her hair fall forward, hiding her soft, affectionate smile.

“Any problems with her?” she whispers.

“None,” Jenkins replies. “She just kept asking when you’d be home. What you were doing?”

“What did you tell her?” she asks, turning sharply to face him, her blood running cold.

“That you were doing work,” he answers delicately. “She didn’t ask what kind of work.” She turns back to look at her. “Good for us she doesn’t ask questions. Not old enough yet, I suppose.”

“She will be one day,” Quill mutters.

She had been old enough to ask her father. She had been old enough to listen to him and be told that he shot three people in the head, be told it was all for the greater good. And she had been old enough to listen to her parent’s marriage deteriorate day by day since that night, to watch her father stare vacantly at the wall with a bottle of vodka in his hand, watch him get up later and later until one day he didn’t get out of the bed. Her mother had ushered her out of the room and forbidden her from entering, even when paramedics came to do the final check and confirm the worst to her.

She bites her lip, tears overflowing in her eyes as she keeps sitting next to Kat. One day, Kat will be old enough to ask questions about what happened tonight. And one day, she’ll have to look her in the eye and answer her. Tell her what she did.

Her father’s daughter.

                                                                                                *****

Matteusz checks over the contents of his bag one more time. He barely has any money, but he’s heard that flights to Rhodia are cheap. Or maybe he can get a boat to France and do the long trek all over again, but backwards this time. But he’s not staying; he decided on that last night. He barely slept, staring up at the ceiling, the image of Charlie’s tear filled eyes and face twisted in rage looking at him stuck on his mind. He remembers the venom in his voice as he spoke to him. He wonders if he’s remembering it wrongly, if he remembers Charlie being more angry than he actually was. Or less.

Charlie has every right to hate him after all.

“You were just going to go?” a voice asks behind him. He turns and sees April, leaning against the wall, looking at him sadly, big round sad eyes and her little pink lips turned down, while Dash sits at her heels. She looks at his packed bag. “Were you even going to say goodbye?”

“Where’s Ram and Tanya?” he asks instead of answering her.

“In the other room,” she answers, sticking her hands in the pockets of her jeans. The make-up from last night is mostly removed, leaving only patches of foundation she was too tired to scrub off. “You’re not the only one upset here.”

“I know,” he replies. “I hope I’m not because we should be upset, we should all be-”

“We heard it all from Charlie last night,” she tells him sharply. “And yeah, we all feel bad about this Matteusz. But we’re not running.”

“Who says I’m running?” he asks. “He is where he belongs, I’m going where I belong.”

“And where’s that?”

“Rhodia. Where else?”

“Rhodia?” she asks, her voice jumping up an octave, at least. “Are you serious? You’re a wanted man there, Matteusz. You put so much effort into escaping and now you’re running back.”

“This escape wasn’t my idea,” he reminds her. “And fine, maybe I won’t go back. But I’m not staying here.”

“You’re giving up on yourself,” she tells him. “And on him.”

“He doesn’t care,” he replies. He swallows the lump in his throat. “He hates me. He hates all of us.” April bows her head. “So I am going wherever he is not. That is how I will make peace with myself.”

“And I can’t talk you out of it?” she asks. He shakes his head, knowing that if he says anything else, he’ll start crying.

She comes over and hugs him tightly. He replies in kind. She’s his friend, after all. They all are, despite everything.

“At least send us a postcard,” she whispers. “From wherever you end up.”

“I’ll try,” he replies.

A knock at the door causes them to pull away, both quickly drying their tears.

“It’s open,” Matteusz says, assuming it’s Tanya or Ram. Selfishly, he hopes it’s Ram, because he’ll be better at goodbyes than Tanya is.

Only it’s not either of them. It’s a tall, blond haired man, unknown to both of them, in a pristine white suit, looking around the room rather uncomfortably.

“Is one of you Matteusz Andrzjewski?” he asks.

“Yes, I am,” Matteusz answers, looking over at a confused April. She shrugs and looks back at their new guest cautiously. Matteusz looks out of the corner of his eye, taking note of the heavy looking book sitting on the desk, just in case he needs a weapon.

“I need you to come with me,” he says. “By order of the Queen Mother of Rhodia.”

“Why?” he asks. “What does she need with me?”

“I’m just the messenger,” he replies. “She says you and she have unfinished business.” Matteusz looks back at April, his stomach turning. “The car is outside to take you to her apartments.” His tone is final and demanding, and Matteusz doesn’t want to see what would happen if he disobeyed. There’s a bulge in the man’s trousers, looking big enough to conceal a baton.

“Okay,” he agrees. April runs up and grabs him by the shoulder, shaking her head frantically. He takes her hand off him, holding it gently. “Give me an hour. If I am not back by then, assume I’ve been kidnapped or something and call the police.” He looks back at the man, who pulls at his tight-looking collar. “An hour, all right?” Behind him, Dash whimpers and runs to Matteusz, nuzzling against his legs, bouncing lightly, his little tail already wagging. Maybe he wants to see his master. “The dog comes too.”

“Fine by me,” he says, having no desire to argue. April nods and reluctantly allows him to follow the man out of the room, Dash running at his heels. They walk down to the lift in uncomfortable, prickly silence, the man staring ahead of him in the lift, only glancing at Matteusz once or twice out of the corner of his eye. He walks him briskly to the car; it’s not a brand Matteusz knows, barely any cars were manufactured in Rhodia, but it’s big and shining black, the edges lined with silver. Inside, the seats are white leather and sparkling clean, so much so that Matteusz feels awkward sitting on it, as though he might leave a dirty handprint on the fine upholstery. Or that Dash, excited as he is, might leave an unfortunate yellow stain on it.

When they get to the Queen’s apartment building, Matteusz has to fight the urge to let his jaw drop open at the sight of it. It, like almost every building in London, towers over him impressively, light brown with intricate patterns carved into it. If he looks up and squints, he can just about make out the angels sitting on the two front corners. Dozens of French windows, framed by red or purple or blue curtains, line along the walls, and a red carpet rolls down the imposing stone staircase, which in turn is covered by a white and gold canopy.

“Come on,” the man says to him, his tone not unkind. “She’s waiting for you in her apartment.” He hurries across the foyer to the lift, barely able to take in the colourful mosaic on the white tiles or the diamond chandelier above him, resting against the white and gold ceiling. He thought the hotel he was staying in with his friends was grand, but this is another world entirely.

The man takes him up to the top floor, the lift moving so swiftly that he worries he might faint, although that could be just nerves. His nails dig into his sweaty palms, his heartbeat growing louder every second. He’s not sure how he’s meant to even speak to the Queen Mother with his mouth so dry. He thinks briefly that since he reunited her with her grandson, the least she could do is give him a glass of water.

He follows the man out of the lift and to the first door on the right, where he knocks swiftly. Countess Oswald opens it, smiling warmly at Matteusz.

“Thank you for bringing him, Elton,” she says, before looking at Matteusz. “Come in, she’s been expecting you.”

“So I hear,” he says under his breath, stepping into the main living room. “Can you take care of my dog for a moment, please?” She nods and scoops up Dash before leading him to where the Queen Mother sits elegantly on a small blue loveseat, wearing a long green dress, her hair held up with an emerald clasp. He’s not sure how to feel about her; despite her change of heart, he’s still not sure he forgives her for how she treated Charlie at the ballet. He settles for bowing slightly to her, keeping his head up.

“Your Majesty,” he greets. “Happiness looks lovely on you.” He glances around nervously, wringing his hands. “He’s not here, is he?”

“No,” she answers with a shake of her head. “No Charles is downstairs, conversing with some old family friends.” She smiles, soft but radiant. “It’s coming back to him now. Bit by bit. We looked through old photographs this morning. He remembers how he loved them.”

“Is he all right?” Matteusz asks. The question takes her by surprise.

“As well as he can be,” she says with a sigh. “It’s difficult for him. Living with the burden of being the only one to survive. I imagine it will be hard for him to bear.”

“I know the feeling,” he states. She cocks her head to the side, but he shakes his head. “Your assistant said you had business with me?”

“Indeed,” she answers, beckoning him closer. He does so but maintains a respectful distance. She gestures to the leather suitcase sitting on the loveseat, opening it to reveal more money than Matteusz has ever seen in his life. So many piles of paper bills, they almost seem worthless. “The reward money. 10 million, I believe is what I advertised.”

Matteusz looks at it. He has never dreamed of having so much money. He could buy a house for himself, Tanya, April and Ram, in the nicest part of London. They could live in luxury and freedom, attending ballets, eating whatever they wish whenever they wanted. They’d never want for anything.

“Thank you,” he says. “But no.” She frowns, coming closer to him. “I don’t want your money.”

“Then what can I give you for returning him safely to me?” she asks. “Jewels? Cars? Anything you want, it’s yours.”

“Unfortunately, what I want isn’t something you can give me,” he says. He bows again, lower this time. “Thank you, Your Majesty. But you may keep your money. I would never know what to do with it.” A daring idea sparks in the back of his mind, and he takes a chance. “Perhaps try giving some of it to charity.” He turns to leave, but she grabs a hold of his arm, turning him back to face her. He casts his eyes down as she studies his face, muttering something under her breath.

“That’s not a Rhodian accent,” she states.

“I’m not Rhodian. Not by blood anyway. I’m Polish.”

“I see,” she says. “What’s your surname?”

“Andrzjewski,” he says carefully. She nods, her face unreadable.

“There was a man who worked in our palace,” she tells him. “His name was Andrzjewski. Not a common name at all, certainly not in Rhodia.” He looks at her, slightly surprised, and she laughs warmly. “I remember more than you think. I knew many servants by name. He had a son, too. And if I do my maths correctly… How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” he replies, his voice shaking.

“Mm,” she says. “Just a few months older than Charles.” She lets go of his arm, knowing she doesn’t need to hold him there. “You know I keep thinking about last night. How sure you were that he was the real Prince. And then Charles told me how he survived last night. He said a serving boy led him to safety.” Matteusz turns his head away, but she grasps his chin and gently pulls him back. “You were that boy weren’t you? The boy who saved him. That’s how you knew it was him.”

“Yes,” he answers after a long while. “Yes.”

“I should grant you a Lordship,” she says. “Leave you a part of my inheritance in my will.”

“No,” he says. “I do not want your money. Or any title.”

“Then I can give you one thing,” she tells him honestly. “My eternal and sincere gratitude.” She grasps his hand tightly, her hands trembling. “Thank you for saving him.”

“You’re welcome,” he says quietly. He almost laughs; you’re welcome is such a light, trivial phrase, but he can’t think of anything else to say. “I should get back to my friends.”

“If you wish,” she says, gesturing to the door. “Elton will deliver you back. But Mr Andrzjewski, if you ever change your mind, I will not hesitate to hand over the reward money.”

“Charlie is home,” he says. “That is my reward.” He turns and leaves a slightly shocked-he’d dare say impressed-Queen Mother in her apartments and leaves, clicking the door shut behind him. He lets out a shuddering breath and leans against the door to give his shaking legs a moment of peace.

“Are you ready to be taken home?” the young man, Elton, asks. Matteusz jumps, having not known he was there.

“Yeah, yeah.” Elton gives him an easy grin, setting a shaking Dash on the floor, who immediately begins pawing at Matteusz’s legs.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, leading him to the lift. “Nice dog.” The lift opens just before Elton can push the button.

Matteusz wants to turn and run when he sees who steps out; Charlie, dressed in a light blue suit jacket and white trousers, his blonde hair pushed slightly to the side, accompanied by a young dark haired woman dressed similarly to Elton. He sees Matteusz immediately, stopping dead in his tracks. So many emotions cover his face in a single moment, shock, confusion, maybe a slight bit of happiness thought could be tricking himself out of wishful thinking, then finally a moment of realisation followed by a quiet kind of anger.

“Matteusz,” he greets coldly.

“Charlie,” he says.

“Young man,” the woman next to Charlie says, her voice shaking slightly. “You will address the Prince as Your Royal Highness. And bow when you speak to him.”

“Jenny, that’s really not-” Charlie begins.

“It’s fine,” Matteusz interrupts. He bows slightly, just enough to keep looking at him. “Your Royal Highness.”

“I trust you have everything you were looking for,” he says bitterly. Matteusz tries not to show how much it stings.

“My business is finished,” he simply states.

“Good.” Before Charlie can say anything else, Dash runs up to him, pawing at his legs. Charlie breaks out into a smile, the same smile that made Matteusz’s heart skip a beat on a rooftop in Rhodia. Seemingly having forgotten everything else, he scoops Dash into his arms, chuckling as he licks his face. He eyes Matteusz suspiciously, one hand running through his fur.

“You brought the dog?” he asks.

“He wanted to come,” he states. “Maybe he missed you. He is technically your dog.”

“I suppose so,” he says. “If it’s all the same to you.”

“Of course it is.” Charlie nods stiffly. He gasps slightly, his eyes shining.

“Goodbye Matteusz,” he says, and he hurries down the hall with Dash in his arms. The woman who was with him, Jenny, shoots Matteusz an apologetic look before heading after him, and he gets into the lift with an uncomfortable looking Elton.

“Is that his dog?” he asks as he presses the button. Matteusz looks at him oddly, since that was the last question he could think to be asked. “Just making conversation.”

“He had it when I met him,” he explains.

“Hey, look, I know it’s none of my business.” If he wasn’t committed to being kind, he’d tell him he’s right, it’s none of his business and ask him to stop talking. “But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” When he turns to look at him, Elton simply shrugs. “I mean, you’re not exactly subtle. And I know heartbreak when I see it.” He doesn’t reply, simply sliding his hands into his back pockets. “That must be rough, mate.”

“Rough is one word for it,” he replies.

                                                                                                *****

Charlie keeps stroking Dash’s fur rhythmically, trying to banish Matteusz from his mind. It’s not easy when he’s been all he can think about whenever he has a free moment. Luckily for him, he rarely has a free moment now, with old family friends clamouring around to see him. He starts recalling names once he sees them, bits and pieces of his fragmented memory coming back to him, building back him up from the nothing he used to be, brick by brick.

“Grandmother?” he calls out as he steps into her apartment-their apartment, he corrects. She’s given him the guest bedroom, despite Countess Oswald insisting he can take hers. He’d be fine sleeping on the floor in the living room. “Grandmother, are you here?”

“Here I am, love,” she says, coming out of her own bedroom. She crosses over to him as quickly as her old legs will carry her, eyeing the dog in his arms with amusement.

“Yeah,” he says delicately. “Um, about that. He was mine in Rhodia and I took him across Europe and…” He takes a sharp breath in, deciding to leave Matteusz out altogether. “He uh, he followed me here. Can I hold onto him?”

“Of course you can, darling,” she says, stroking his cheek. She’s touched him so much since they found each other, stroking his face and hair, holding his hand and touching his shoulder. Like he might disappear on her again. Still, he won’t complain. It’s been a long time since someone was so affectionate with him.

Dash, apparently bored, jumps out of his arms and runs around the room, exploring every new piece of furniture available to him. Charlie sees his grandmother try not to wince when he nestles up to the couches and chairs, no doubt leaving his hair everywhere.

“He is trained isn’t he?” she asks him.

“Uhh, probably.” He says, thinking back to Rhodia. They had set up some newspapers in the corner of the theatre and taken turns trying to train Dash to do his business in them. It took a while, normally leading to loud complaints from Ram and debates over who was going to clean it up. He shakes his head. Forgetting his former friends is harder than he thought it would be.

“Well we’ll have to get someone in to train him anyway,” his grandmother says. “Now come here.” She takes his arm and leads him over to the couch. “Tonight, we’ll announce you to the world, officially, right here in the hotel. A celebration for Rhodians only.” She squeezes his hands. “A reminder that they didn’t win. Not entirely.” He nods, but his smile dips slightly. No doubt the room will be filled with Rhodian nobility, but they won’t compare to what was lost that night. Every person he meets lost someone eight years ago.

“I wish they could be here with us,” he says, his voice small. She kisses his head, gasping lightly.

“They’re always with us,” she reminds him. He hums in agreement but isn’t entirely sure if he believes her. She wipes away his tears. “Anyway, the press will be there too, and they’ll certainly have questions about you. About where you lived, why you took so long to come here…”

“Let them ask,” he sighs. “All that really matters is that we found each other.”

Before she can say anything else, the front door opens abruptly, and he hears Countess Oswald’s unmistakable voice making futile protests. A man with bleached blond hair and a familiar enough face sweeps in, wearing a red-lined black cape over a navy blue suit, despite the warm enough weather. He looks Charlie up and down with a snarl. He briefly considers hiding behind his grandmother but thinks better of it. He won’t hide from anyone. Behind him, Countess Oswald looks devastated and mouths an apology to them, but his grandmother waves it away, looking bored.

“Surely, Your Majesty, you don’t believe this imposter is the Crown Prince Charles,” he says. Charlie is sure he recognises the voice. An image creeps up in his mind, he guesses from when he was six or seven, at a party on a cold, dark night, his parents talking with this man, giving one word answers to his long, elaborate speeches and giggling when their backs were turned. His father made a snide remark about how he wasn’t sure why they had to invite him-

“Count Masters,” he interrupts excitedly. He steps back, his mouth open a little in shock. Details comes flooding into Charlie’s mind and out of his mouth with little control, the way it seems to do when he remembers someone. “With your dyed hair, loud voice-and vodka breath!” Count Masters covers his mouth with his hand while Charlie bounces a little. Admittedly, he doesn’t look as dignified as a Prince should look. “No wonder my parents laughed at you behind your back.”

“You’re right Charles, they did,” his grandmother agrees. He feels slightly bad, but only slightly. His parents never liked Count Masters anyway. Appalled, he turns and runs out, not bothering to even bow at either of them.

“Where were you three weeks ago when he was pestering me?” Countess Oswald asks. “By the way, when I was downstairs, this arrived for you.” She pulls a small white envelope out of her coat and hands it over to him. “From one of your friends. Hand delivered too, must be important. She looked like she ran to get it to you.”

His heart sinks when he sees the handwriting; his name is written on it in Tanya’s distinctive looped scrawl.

“Thank you,” he says, putting it into his pocket and intending to never take it out. “I’ll read it when I get the time.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Your Majesty, I have an arrangement this afternoon with Countess Ashildr,” she says.

“Of course, Clara,” she says. “Go, enjoy yourself.” The Countess-Clara, he supposes-smiles and drops a curtsey to each other them before leaving. Behind him, his grandmother tuts. “She thinks she’s subtle.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, turning to her.

“She and Countess Ashildr think their whole little affair is private,” she laughs. “Maybe the rest of those old fools haven’t picked up on it, but she can’t get past me.”

“Nothing gets past you,” he says.

“Mm.” Guilt crosses her face as she wrings her hands. “Perhaps. You know, Charles this party tonight… You don’t know most of these people. You were still a child when you saw them last. And since it’s your party, you’d be more than welcome to invite some people.”

“Who would I even invite?” he asks. “I imagine everyone I know is already on the guest list.”

“Perhaps your friends from the ballet?” The suggestion takes him by surprise, making him feel cold all over. He pulls at the sleeves of his jacket, suddenly far too uncomfortable in it. “And your young man?”

“He’s not my young man,” he replies, turning slightly away from her. “And they aren’t my friends. They were using me.”

“Well, if it’s not plain t you that he loves you-”

“He’s not my young man, Grandmother!” he says sharply and regrets it immediately. He looks at the floor, biting his lip hard to keep it from trembling. “He’s not.”

Whatever feelings he thought Matteusz had for him was in his imagination; he knows that now. And he was a fool for even thinking anything different. His grandmother shrugs casually, shaking her head at him.

“When he refused my reward for finding you, I thought Charles has found himself a different kind of Prince.” His head shoots up at her words. “One of character, not birth.”

“Matteusz refused the reward money?” he asks.

“You are home,” she replies. “He said that was his reward.” She takes his face in her hands, looking at him with shining eyes. “You have made this the happiest day of my life, Charles. Make sure it will be yours as well, Charlie.” She kisses his forehead gently. “We will always have each other no matter what you decide.”

“Promise?” he asks.

“Of course,” she says. “Now I need to go out for a while. Make arrangements for you before you’re made my official heir. Will you be all right on your own?”

“Yeah.” She kisses his head one last time before heading out, reminding him he can call her or Countess Oswald if he needs anything. He sits back down on the couch and pulls the letter out of his pocket, his hands shaking so badly he can barely read it, one single thought pounding in his brain; Matteusz didn’t take the reward money.

                                                                                                *****

Quill’s radio bursts into life in the early afternoon, right when she was contemplating going out, having almost given up hope entirely that they’d have word on the Queen and the boy. It’s just her and Antony; Jenkins once again minding Kat by taking her down to get ice cream.

“Quill? Quill, come in, it’s Rachel. Over.” Her voice comes in with a burst of static, shaky and difficult to make out.

“Rachel, I copy,” she replies into the mic. “Any updates on the Queen Mother? Or the boy? Over.”

“She’s recognising him,” Rachel replies. Quill’s blood runs cold as she grasps the mic tighter, her finger pressing harder and harder on the red button keeping Rachel’s channel open. “She’s recognising him as her heir tonight. And he’s alone now. Over.”

“Alone, over?” she asks dumbly. Her heart feels like its clawing its way up her throat.

“Yes. The Queen Mother said she’d be gone a few hours. I have a key to the room, swiped from one of his guards. What’s our next move? Over.”

“Stay there,” she decides immediately. “I’m on my way. If I need back up I’ll radio in for you. Don’t move until you get my signal. Over.”

“Copy that. I’m keeping the channels on their apartments open. Take a walkie and I’ll radio if there’s any disturbance.” On the other line, Quill hears her swallow. She wonders how old Rachel is; fresh, round face and wide green eyes. “What’s the play?”

“You know what it is,” she says flatly, fighting against the lump in her throat. “She’s recognised him. His fate’s sealed now.” The room falls quiet, so quiet she can hear Rachel’s breathing through the static of the radio. “Over and out.”

Her gun is already in her holster, fully loaded. There’s no turning back now. She gets up and puts on her coat, concealing it. She can’t explain why, but her hands are shaking. She doesn’t feel fear. She has never felt fear. She is a soldier, and wars aren’t won by cowards too scared to pull the trigger. Her father wasn’t scared. No one who fought and killed and died eight years ago was scared. And despite her hands shaking as she opens the door, her chest feeling empty as she steps out of her hotel and in the direction of the Queen Mother’s apartment building, she tells herself neither is she.

                                                                                                *****

It takes Charlie a full hour to open the letter. Grandmother still isn’t back yet, and he curls up on the floor, back against the sofa to read it.

_Dear Charlie-Charles, now, I guess,_

_Look, I’ll just say it. I am so, so sorry. I didn’t think-I never thought about how this plan was going to mess with you. I never thought that far ahead. I just wanted out of Rhodia and I wanted the money so badly I-forget it, that’s not important._

_I wish April were writing this. She’s better at this than I am but I just wanted you to hear this from me. Or read this. Whatever._

_I’m really happy you’re happy and you’re home and you’re with your grandma again. You deserve it. I hope you have good Prince-y life. Living in castles and being rich. I hope you get everything. We all know you’re the real Prince anyway._

_I know you hate us now and you probably should. I wish we’d done it all differently. I wish we were still friends. I wish I’d done it right from the start. April’s sorry and Ram’s sorry and Matteusz is a mess. He’d rather you not know that but he is. We’re all so sorry. Honestly._

_Tanya._

By the time he finishes, he can barely read with the tears in his eyes.

He folds it over and places it next to him, his body going limp as he lets out a long breath. His limps sink into the sofa and floor; he feels too drained to move. Once again, everything he had thought it gone in an instant.

Dash pushes his head against Charlie’s hand, demanding to be pet. He huffs a laugh and gives into his puppy’s wishes. Dash rubs his nose against the letter and rests his head on Charlie’s lap, looking up at him. He recognises the look on Dash’s face; it’s the same one he had the first day they met and he pulled him towards the Capitol, away from a life of working in a factory without an identity and towards a long journey home.

And towards Matteusz.

Picking up Dash, Charlie wanders over to the mirror above the fireplace. He looks fine, he knows that. He’s taken a hot shower for the first time in… well longer than he cares to admit, he’s eaten more than rations and stolen food and slept on a real, comfortable bed that doesn’t poke and stab his back. And he has someone who loves him. He’s not searching for himself or who he is anymore. He has someone to hold him-and who did hold him for hours and hours last night. He should be happy and he is.

And he also isn’t.

Eight years is longer than most people realise, including himself. And he might be Prince now, but for eight years he was an orphan. It’s a big jump from one to the other, and he knows that he’s not landed yet, and he definitely won’t have landed by tonight. He might well have been born into this world of money and diamonds, fine food and fast cars, but a lot of that is still an unfamiliar bur to him, a process of learning it all again.

Maybe it’s not his world anymore, or at least it won’t be for a while.

Maybe his world is a boy with a Polish accent and dimples and whose hand fits right in his.

And it only took him this long to realise it.

Stupid boy.

Behind him, he hears the door open and he wipes the tears from his face, trying to calm his frantic heart. He at least thanks God that he has a grandmother who can understand him, who’ll wait for him to come back when he does. He’ll always come back.

“Grandmother, I-”

His voice catches in his throat when he turns, only a small, pained gasp escaping him instead. In his shock, he stumbles backwards on shaking legs, knocking into an ornate hat stand. He’s not sure if the room got colder or he just did, but a shiver runs down his spin. It’s not his grandmother. Or Clara or any of the other Counts and Countesses or any of the bodyguards or servants. She closes the door behind her, sliding the chain into position. The click seems to echo throughout the the room and hit his chest. He can’t think how she got in here, into his apartment or into this country for that matter. It’s been many weeks since he saw her last and she looks more or less the same; straight blonde hair and pale skin, especially with the black ensemble she’s wearing. Her steel blue eyes seem cold as they lock on him, not even leaving as she pulls out a heavy looking gun and snaps the safety off, a feral snarl on her face.

“Quill,” he whispers, his voice thin. She flashes an empty, quick smile and raises her gun.

“Hello, Charles.”

_I should be glad I’m where I should be_

_But nothing is what it was_

_I didn’t know he mattered to me_

_But now I can see he does_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can y'all believe we're close to the end of this ride?

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked, do leave a comment in order to feed my monster of an ego.


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